


Conversations In A Fragile Language

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And Saving Each Other, Artifacts & Oddities, Big Damn Heroes, Developing Relationship, M/M, Road Trips, Saving the World, Speculative Powers Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-09-13 10:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16890720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: “Who is it who says the closer you areto an irreversible apocalypse the more fragilelanguage is?”Amor Fati - Catherine BarnettJon flees London to save the world. Martin invites himself along.





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

> This is halfway between a relationship story and a saving the world story, and I can’t say if I’ve successfully achieved either. However this is what it is.
> 
> I see this as happening in a hypothetical Season 5 timeframe, so a bit further down the road. The plot is mostly sketched out, however there are some blank areas, so tags and warnings may change. 
> 
> Please excuse any geographical, historical, or linguistic errors.

Jon escapes on a Tuesday afternoon, and he’s afraid it may already be too late. 

He could blame Gertrude: her scattered, inscrutable notes, her cryptic references. Her focus on the Unknowing to the near exclusion of all else. In reality, he knows it is his own fault. He’s been all too eager to embrace the role of Archivist, hungry for knowledge and sure he could save the world. A perfect mix of arrogance and ignorance for Elias to mold as he pleased. By the time he finally put the pieces together and realized what Elias intended for him, it was too far gone to be easily reversed. 

He needs to figure this out. Away from the Institute, because the longer he stays the more he loses himself to this place. The more he becomes the Archivist. He’s gone from barely tolerating a statement weekly, to easily recording four or five in that time, feeling not quite right if he goes more than a day or two without. Nowadays he _feels_ Elias’ attention on him, almost all the time, and that is mostly disturbing but sometimes oddly comforting. Like he’s being watched over, _cherished_. 

That feeling more than anything is what makes him certain he needs to leave. He needs to get away from Elias’ insidious influence, find a way to stop what’s happening, this slow creep towards inhumanity. Towards inhabiting the role Elias wants him to. He needs to run.

He doesn’t think Elias can see his thoughts, not yet at least, so he makes his plans quickly and carefully. Gathers all of Gertrude’s notes on the Watcher’s Crown, a few reference books he thinks may come in useful, as much cash as he can reasonably withdraw without raising suspicion. A thick bundle of statements, which he derides himself for taking even as his hands linger on the pages. Then on a Tuesday at about four in the afternoon, when he’s sent all the others out on casework, he sets the Archives on fire. 

The shelves, doused in kerosene, take immediately, flames licking up the wood. The alarm begins clamoring, but the room does not fill with carbon dioxide. Finding instructions to disable a fire suppression system is disturbingly easy online; just a bit of levering with a flathead screwdriver to pop out the heat sensor, and even with his complete lack of DIY expertise, Jon managed it easily. 

He only sabotaged the Archives, of course. If the fire reaches the stairs it will set off the suppression system on the ground floor, and the fire brigade will likely arrive before that even happens. The important thing is that the Archives are burning and that will _hurt_ Elias. Will make it difficult for him to concentrate. Will, hopefully create a gap in his attention that Jon can slip through. 

Jon returns the spider web lighter to his pocket. Grabs his bag and heads calmly towards the trapdoor into the tunnels, trying not to breathe in the thickening smoke. Ignores the uncomfortable squirming down his spine at the sound of paper starting to crisp and scorch. He pulls open the heavy wooden trapdoor and then his heart sinks at a voice behind him. 

“Jon!” Martin’s tone is high and flustered. “What are you doing? The building’s on fire, we need to - oh.”

Jon turns, rucksack on his back. Martin is wearing a coat and a bag over his shoulder, his expression quickly sliding from confusion into disappointed understanding. 

“You’re leaving again,” he says.

“Martin - ” Jon begins, meaning to tell him _I have to_ or _I’m sorry_ or _I’ll explain when I can_. Anything, really, rather than just his name and then staring, while Martin’s jaw sets and his hands ball into fists at his sides.

“I’m coming with you,” Martin says. 

“You - this isn’t a research trip, Martin. I’m - I might not be coming back this time.”

Martin nods firmly, stepping towards the trapdoor.

“Let’s go, then,” he says. Jon opens his mouth, then shuts it. This isn’t the time or place for an argument. Besides, he can’t leave Martin here in the burning Archives, even if he’d probably be fine. He can explain it when they’re out of here, get rid of Martin then.

“Fine,” he says. “Come on - quickly.”

One thing Gertrude’s notes did contain is information on navigating Smirke’s tunnels, presumably gleaned from Juergen Leitner. Coded, of course, but Jon isn’t an idiot. He leads the way as rapidly as he can, counting junctions and stairways, left and right turns. They emerge into a side street in Kensington and head for High Street Station, walking briskly but not rushing, trying to stay inconspicuous. Martin keeps pace with Jon silently, knowing better than to ask questions just now.

The station is filling with evening commuters, and Jon breathes easier as they slip into the bustle. People are his best defense, crowds of faces and minds he can use as camouflage. They get on the Circle Line to Victoria and find seats. Jon watches the platform as the train pulls out, then takes a slow, careful look around the carriage, trying to appear nonchalant. He’s not sure how well he does, but he doesn’t see anyone paying attention to them. 

Finally he turns to Martin, crammed between Jon and a tired looking woman. Leans close, because he doesn’t want anyone overhearing, even innocently. 

“What were you doing in the Archives?” he demands in hushed tones. “I sent you out to follow up on the Devries statement.”

“I forgot my wallet,” Martin whispers defensively. “And I do work there, you can’t act like I did something wrong.”

Jon sighs. Because of _course_ Martin would forget his wallet and have to come back on this specific day. It’s not that Basira or Melanie would never forget something, but on a day when Jon deliberately needed them out of the way, it could only happen to Martin. When it comes to Martin, Jon sometimes feels a cosmic force is conspiring against him. 

“Look, I need to leave the country for a while,” he continues quietly. “It’s - I’m following up on Gertrude’s research. The Stranger wasn’t the only power...moving. I need to investigate, without Elias looking over my shoulder.”

“Okay,” Martin says. “So where are we going?”

“No, Martin,” Jon says, pained. “You can’t come with me. I need you to stay here and, and help keep Elias off my trail.”

Martin gives him a skeptical look.

“That’s a lie,” he says. “You’re lying to me. If you wanted me to do that, you would have asked me before you tried to burn the Institute down - what _was_ that, by the way?”

“A...distraction,” Jon says. “Look, fine, that was a lie, I’m sorry. You just...can’t come. It won’t be, well, very safe.”

“Safer with two of us than you on your own,” Martin points out. 

“I - need to get on a plane tonight,” Jon protests. “There’s no time for you to go and get your passport or anything.”

“Oh, I have my passport,” Martin says brightly. “I always keep it with me, just in case. That, and a torch, and a Swiss army knife - one of the ones with a corkscrew. Since Prentiss. I suppose I won’t be able to take that on the plane with me, though.”

Jon gives up. There is something indomitable about Martin once he’s really made his mind up. Once he gets past waffling about the right thing to do and worrying what other people want, he has a stubborn core that absolutely refuses to budge. The experience is akin to being run over by a steamroller made of foam rubber, soft but inexorable.

The ruthlessly practical part of him also says that leaving Martin behind could be a liability. Martin doesn’t know a lot about Jon’s plans, but it could be enough for Elias to extrapolate from, could negate the head start he’s given himself. And, a rather less callous part of him reminds him guiltily, it could put Martin in danger. Elias can’t compel the truth, but he undoubtedly has other, nastier ways to get what he wants. Better to keep Martin with him, at least for now. Jon can find somewhere to leave him - somewhere relatively safe, of course - once they’re out of the UK. 

“All right,” he says. “But this is not a holiday. It will get dangerous, and when it does I need you to follow my instructions, no questions asked.”

Martin beams, looking very much like he thinks it’s a holiday.

“Absolutely,” he says. Jon isn’t sure he hasn’t just made a terrible mistake. 

From Victoria they take a train to Stansted, among a crush of jovial holiday-makers and bored airport workers. Jon purchases tickets for a late flight to Amsterdam, and then changes cash into euros while Martin buys sandwiches and bottled water. They eat in silence, anxiety roiling in Jon’s brain. He’s not sure what Elias could do to stop him at this point, and that makes him even more nervous, because he is aware that he has no idea what Elias is truly capable of.

“So…” says Martin eventually. “Did you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s, uh, complicated,” Jon says, frowning. “When I was...in the hospital, last year, I experienced, or, or _observed_ , I suppose, a number of memories. Of people I’d taken statements from. As if the statements had sort of - _captured_ those experiences. It was...unpleasant, to say the least. In any case, since then I’ve been studying Gertrude’s hidden notes - ”

“The ones we found in the storage locker?” Martin interjects, squinting thoughtfully.

“Yes, and I’ve found out a bit about the ritual of the Watcher’s Crown - the, uh, the Beholding’s version of the Unknowing.”

Martin nods.

“It turns out that collecting experiences related to the Fears - specifically, collecting experiences from, uh, _individuals_ , that are devoted to those powers - is part of the ritual. All this time, Elias has been nudging me in the right direction to gather these particular statements. Manipulating me, to help him start the ritual for his...god, or however he thinks of it.” 

“Whooo…” Martin lets out a long, incredulous breath, leaning back in his seat. “That is...very bad. Right?”

“Right,” Jon agrees. He feels oddly comforted at having told Martin the truth, like a weight has lifted off his shoulders. There’s no reason he should feel that way - it’s not as if telling Martin has changed anything - but it’s...a relief, not having to keep everything to himself. 

“So what are we going to do about it?” Martin asks. 

“I’m - I’m not sure yet, Martin,” Jon admits. “That’s why I had to get away, to find out how to prevent the ritual entirely. And to stop Elias trying to use me to progress it in the meantime.”

Martin nods, squaring his jaw in a way that Jon recognizes from just earlier tonight, the look that says Martin’s made his mind up.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says firmly. Jon smiles tiredly at him. There is something heartening about Martin’s certainty, unfounded as it is.

Some time later their flight is called for boarding, and they shuffle onto the plane with the other passengers. The cabin door closes, and the plane begins its slow taxi down the runway as the cabin crew give the safety demonstration. 

“Looks like we made it,” Martin says quietly. Jon sighs and closes his eyes, letting himself relax minutely. 

“Looks like it,” he says.


	2. Furth im Wald; Kraków

Jon’s primary goal at first is setting a false - or at least confusing - trail for anyone who might be following them, with as many points of failure as possible. Elias may not reel him back in immediately, but he will certainly want to know what his Archivist is doing, so he can intervene when he finds it good and proper to do so. Jon’s skin crawls a little at the thought. The longer he spends out from under Elias’ surveillance, the more he realizes just how intrusive it was, how subtle his own slide into complacency had been.

From Schiphol they fly to Frankfurt, then take a train to Stuttgart, then double back through Nuremberg. If Elias tracks them to Stuttgart, Jon hopes he will assume they’ve gone on to Schramberg, chasing the von Closen family history. Instead they head for the small town of Furth im Wald on the Czech border, the train chugging slowly through lush Bavarian forest as Martin reads from a travel pamphlet he picked up at the station.

“The oldest tradition in the town is _Drachenstich_ ,” he tells Jon. “Which recreates the legendary slaying of a dragon in the town. Wow, they have a fifteen meter mechanical dragon that breathes fire!” 

“We won’t have time for sightseeing,” Jon reminds him brusquely. 

“The festival’s in August, anyway,” Martin continues, “Although they do have a dragon museum...”

Jon sighs and closes his eyes as Martin rambles on. Jon’s seen Martin sleep deprived before, after his encounter with Jane Prentiss, when he was staying on the uncomfortable camp bed in the Archives and jumping at every shadow. He recognizes the slightly manic chatter about any and all topics, and he can’t really blame Martin. They’ve been traveling non-stop for over twenty four hours, and he thinks they could both do with an actual night’s sleep.

The cobbled streets and red tiled roofs of Furth im Wald might have been precision designed for tourist appeal. It’s not tourist season right now, however, so they don’t have any trouble finding rooms in a small hotel. Jon sees Martin side-eyeing him as they take their keys, and is about to ask when he realizes, of course, he’s been speaking perfect Bavarian German to the receptionist. No wonder she’s smiling at him so sincerely. 

“Handy, that whole...language thing,” Martin says hesitantly. 

“A bit,” Jon concedes. “It’s everything else that’s the problem.”

“I need a shower,” says Martin. “Then something to eat. Are you...hungry at all?”

“I, uh, have some work to do,” says Jon. “You go ahead.”

“Oh, do you want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, no,” Jon waves him away, “I’ll probably go and get something later, fresh air will do me good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jon gets to his room and locks the door, trying to ignore the faint trembling in his fingers. He had been hoping to hold off longer, but the stress of travel really took it out of him. He pulls out the tape recorder and places it on the small table, then takes one of the statements from his stash, smoothing the paper out flat in front of him. The recorder clicks on without being touched, magnetic tape unspooling with a low hiss. Jon clears his throat and begins to read.

He is feeling a lot better the next morning, and gladly accepts the styrofoam cup of coffee Martin offers him. The town looks charming in the sunlight as they walk outside. 

“So where are we going?” Martin asks. Right. Martin _isn’t_ a mind reader, Jon actually has to tell him what’s going on. Jon’s never been much good at thinking of people at the best of times, and lately has definitely not been the best of times. 

“We’re visiting a woman named Monica Fischer,” he says. “Her grandfather, Aloys Fischer, was a student of Theodor Lipps, who popularized the concept of _einfühlung_. That’s the idea that humans experience emotions from other people and things due to their own projections _onto_ the object of their empathy. It’s sort of partway between philosophy and psychology, a bit fluffy for my tastes.”

Jon realizes he’s rambling and stops himself. Martin is smiling warmly, like he finds Jon’s babbling entertaining. 

“Anyway,” Jon continues, slightly embarrassed, “Fischer explored _ einfühlung_ specifically as it related to fear, and according to Gertrude’s notes, he wrote a thesis titled _Man’s Empathy with Fear_ , which is...relevant. Apparently he approached the primal Fears in a less rigid manner than Smirke, with the idea that humans are constantly redefining our response to Fear based on our own experiences. Gertrude made a note that she should obtain this thesis, but it seems she never got around to it. The thesis was never published, but I did a little further digging and found that Fischer’s descendants preserved his work right here in his hometown.”

“Right,” says Martin. “And just so I’m clear, this was the most important thing you needed to do after going on the run?”

“Well, I mean, _most important_ is a strong term, but yes, this is definitely important. It’s good background, adds more depth of understanding.”

“Right,” Martin repeats, nodding. 

“Also this definitely isn’t the first place Elias would expect me to come,” Jon adds, feeling rather defensive. 

“That I can definitely believe,” says Martin. His smile now has a teasing quirk to it. Jon feels himself color a little.

“I didn’t twist your arm,” he huffs, “You could have stayed in London.”

“I could,” Martin agrees. “This is more interesting.”

Monica Fischer turns out to be a sweet, elderly woman who insists on speaking in halting English “so your friend can understand”. She serves them strong, bitter coffee and sticky pastries, and is very flattered by English magazine writers traveling all this way to take an interest in her grandfather’s work. She directs Jon to the small study where she keeps his papers filed away, while she stays chatting with Martin about her vegetable garden and her three cats, one of which has claimed Martin’s lap. 

Jon finds the thesis without too much difficulty, handwritten and bound roughly in leather. He feels somewhat guilty about slipping it into his bag, but Martin is providing such an excellent distraction he can’t help taking advantage of it. He tucks it away with a silent oath that he _will_ return it eventually, and rejoins them in the other room. 

They leave with promises to visit again, and of course to send Monica a copy of the article they’re writing about her grandfather’s life and work. 

“Did you get it?” Martin asks, vigorously brushing cat hair off his trousers. 

“I, uh, yes, I did,” says Jon, surprised. He wouldn’t have expected Martin to be a willing participant in theft, especially from an old lady.

“Good,” Martin nods. “You can photocopy it at the hotel and leave it in your room with a note when you check out.”

“Yes, of course,” Jon scoffs, as if that had been his plan all along. Martin smiles.

“So...d’you think we have time for the dragon museum?”

The next few weeks pass in much the same way. They travel roundabout routes, using cash where possible, not using their names unless they must. Gertrude’s notes contain a laundry list of important people and places, but are annoyingly vague on how - or even if - they relate to the Watcher’s Crown. It is like competing in a treasure hunt where all the clues are written in Portuguese. Backwards. Using Cyrillic alphabet. And the only way to find out what they lead to is to go there. 

Jon tries not to get frustrated with the slow progress. He does find some fascinating information: a seventeenth century poetry book in Umeå, filled with cryptic, distressing references to the Beholding; a hidden Lascaux cave painting depicting a vast eye overlooking a circle of kneeling figures; in the Semmelweiss Medical Museum in Budapest, a nineteenth century account of a patient who died screaming about “the watcher’s glory”, where the subsequent autopsy found the body cavity to be filled with eyes. Understanding what it all means is an entire other topic.

The fact of the matter is, Gertrude was better at this than Jon is. Or at least, she had far longer to become good at it. Things she considered important, such as Aloys Fischer’s thesis, he struggles to fit into the grand scheme. The thesis talks about how the Fears are changed by interaction with humans, describes how human reactions to the Fears lie along a spectrum from terror to worship. Which is all well and interesting, but what on earth does it have to do with stopping the Beholding? In comparison, her notes on the Unknowing had been practically a step-by-step guidebook. Jon feels he’s flailing in the dark, lacking the knowledge base and resources Gertrude had taken for granted.

Throughout it all Martin stays with him, uncomplaining and endlessly cheerful, insisting that Jon do normal things like eat and see the sunlight, and generally preventing him from turning into a weird recluse. 

Jon thinks, frequently and guiltily, about the promise he’d made himself to leave Martin somewhere safe. Despite all that Jon gripes about Martin’s fussing, he is honestly not certain what he would do without him. Martin’s normalcy keeps him grounded, something he can cling to when he’s getting lost in the horrifying knowledge that he seeks. 

Martin is different, too, than he used to be. At first Jon thinks it’s being away from the Institute that’s made him bolder, more certain of himself. But the more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure it’s been a slower change - an evolution, not a metamorphosis. It had started even before the Unknowing, when Martin had volunteered to deliberately draw Elias’ anger, then confronted him alone. Then afterwards, Jon had been...gone, leaving his assistants no choice but to stand for themselves against Peter Lukas. By the time Jon returned, they were all different, but Martin perhaps most of all. Martin’s always had strength at his core, something that’s far more visible now he’s shed layers of anxiety and self doubt.

He seems...happier, too, than Jon has ever known him to be, which is pretty odd for a man on the run. Or maybe Jon’s just gotten better at noticing it.

They encounter the first hunter in Poland. Having exhausted all the easily accessible leads, they need to go further afield to learn any more. Going back to the UK to apply for travel visas isn’t exactly an option, but fortunately Gertrude’s list of contacts includes someone identified with the note “misc. travel documents”, and an address in Kraków. As it turns out, Gertrude’s contact is able to produce any visa they might require, in a remarkably short period of time, and for a correspondingly steep price. Jon thanks his lucky stars that he’s never had much interest in spending money for its own sake, and that the Institute’s salaries are suspiciously high for a research organization.

They spend three days in Kraków waiting for the documents to be prepared, and by the time they are ready to leave Jon is feeling antsy. This the the longest they’ve spent in a single location, and he worries that the more they linger, the greater chance of being located. Unfortunately, that feeling is correct. 

They are walking through Matejko Square on the way to the train station, when Jon spots someone watching them through the crowd of tourists. A tall, lean woman, keeping her distance but definitely pacing them. Jon recognizes the intent, predatory expression, the same one Daisy used to wear near the end, and knows. He glances sidelong at her, trying not to let her know she’s been seen.

“Don’t look,” he tells Martin, “But we’re being stalked.”

Martin, to his credit, doesn’t immediately swivel his head around to look. 

“Where?” he asks. 

“To your right,” Jon murmurs. “I suggest we try to lose her before we go to the station.” 

Martin nods, and Jon leads them off at an angle, almost perpendicular to the hunter, in the hope that the bustling crowds will conceal them. He glances over his shoulder after a few moments, and doesn’t see her, breathes a sigh of relief and keeps walking. He is quite pleased with himself for almost half a minute, until the hunter steps out of the crowd directly in front of him. Her mouth is twisted into a feral grin, showing too many teeth. She reaches for Jon, fingers curled like a hawk’s talons.

Suddenly, Martin shoulders his way in front of Jon, holding a leather satchel up in front of him. He thrusts the bag at the hunter, hard as he can into her torso, shoving her off balance so she staggers back into the figures behind her, the bag now clutched against her chest. 

“Rabuś!” Martin shouts, then repeats in English: “Mugger!” 

Then he grabs Jon by the arm and yanks him away. They run, remaining bags bouncing on their shoulders, Jon snatching a quick look over his shoulder as they dart through the crowd. The woman is struggling to extricate herself from the group she’s stumbled into, one of them pushing up into her face indignantly, a pair grabbing at her arms and the bag she’s holding. He doesn’t look back again. 

They don’t stop running until they reach the train station, and even then Jon waves Martin onto the first train he sees standing at the platform, not even checking its destination. 

“That’ll do,” he pants, and Martin nods, red faced and breathing hard as he climbs on board. They find seats and watch the platform anxiously until the train pulls out a few minutes later. There is no sign of the hunter. 

Martin goes to buy tickets from the conductor, and returns with the news that the train is headed for Poznań. Jon nods; anywhere is fine at this point. He starts to relax, when suddenly a dreadful thought occurs to him.

“Martin,” he says carefully, “Which bag did you throw at that hunter?”

Martin’s eyes widen, and the blood drains from his face. Jon feels sick to his stomach.

“Oh no…” he says. “Oh, Jon, I’m so sorry - I wasn’t thinking. Those were your statements, weren’t they? I know you need them. We can get off at the next station and go back - ”

“We can’t,” says Jon, “And it’s, it’s fine. I’m...fine.” He feels a wave of shame overtake the nausea. He’d thought he was being subtle, but apparently it’s completely obvious just how dependent he is on the statements. Martin knows all about it, and Jon feels absolutely pathetic.

“I’m really sorry,” Martin starts again, and Jon sighs, tenting his fingers over his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to meet Martin’s apologetic gaze.

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “You did the right thing - if you hadn’t, we might not have gotten away. That was quick thinking.”

“Thanks,” Martin says quietly. Then: “What are you going to do...without them?”

“I’m...not sure. I’ll think of something. It’ll be fine. We have the visas, that’s the important thing.”

Jon isn’t sure it will be fine, because this isn’t some ordinary addiction. The Eye is no more benevolent a god than the other Fears: either you feed it, or you _feed_ it. It’s already been a couple of days since Jon read his last statement - he’d been trying to ration them out slowly, make them last as long as possible, for all the good that’s done him - and he’s already starting to feel...watched. 

It’s a different feeling from Elias’ scrutiny. Less personal, for one. Being watched by Elias always had a sense of...solicitude. Condescending and self-important, certainly, but concerned nonetheless. The Eye’s observation is cold, impersonal, interested only in stripping him bare and consuming the facts of him. It makes him jumpy and anxious, to start, then later weak, feverish and trembling. He’s never let it progress past that stage, and he doesn’t want to think what will happen as the Eye feeds on him further. 

The next couple of days, Martin is attentive to an alarming degree, jumping every time Jon so much as scratches himself, offering water or tea or a warmer jacket. Jon knows he’s just trying to help, is feeling guilty for losing the statements, but along with the tremor in Jon’s hands and the constant headache that’s settled in, it is almost unbearable. Jon snaps at him a handful of times, and then immediately feels bad about it, apologizing wearily. He can recall a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn’t have apologized - might not have even felt bad, blaming Martin for his own short temper. Jon likes to think he’s a less unpleasant person now than he was then, as if the slow slide towards inhumanity has made him cling to what humanity he has left. 

Three days later they are sitting in a small cafe, eating lunch. Or rather, Martin is eating while Jon pushes food around his plate and ignores Martin’s worried glances. Jon looks around the cafe to distract himself from the nauseating smell of fried food and the ever present awareness of the Eye drilling into the back of his skull. His eyes land on a woman sitting at a table alone, and a sudden sensation jolts through him. Not quite recognition, but something akin. _Identification_ , perhaps. 

Without even thinking about it, he stands up, walks over, and takes a seat across from the woman. She looks at him, startled, her coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. Jon leans forward.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” he asks quietly. The woman’s eyebrows knit together as if bewildered, and she opens her mouth. 

“I - yes,” she says. “I would like to tell someone.” 

Jon smiles. In the back of his head he hears the faint, familiar click and hiss of a tape recorder that isn’t there. 

“Statement begins.”

Ten minutes later, the woman - whose name is Carolina - concludes her statement. Tears are rolling down her cheeks and her coffee is long forgotten, cold on the table. Jon lets out a long breath. He feels...remarkably better. 

“Thank you,” he says. “And, I’m sorry about your brother.” 

Jon returns to the table where Martin has stayed sitting, watching what’s been happening. 

“What was that?” Martin asks warily. 

“I...just recognized that she had a statement to make,” says Jon, frowning. “Apparently, that’s something I can do now.”

“And, umm, no tape recorder?”

“No, it...it seems not to be necessary.” 

“Huh,” says Martin. “Well, you do look a bit better.”

“I feel better,” Jon admits, then glances over at the woman. She is drying her eyes with a napkin, and gives him a look that is poised between confused and afraid. 

“I, uh, I think we should probably go,” suggests Jon. They pay quickly, and leave before any questions can be asked. 

After that Jon finds he can always pick someone out of a crowd when he needs to, can gently compel them to tell their story, leaving them bewildered at having just spilled their worst memories to a complete stranger. Confusion turns quickly to either fear or anger, and Jon always tries to make himself scarce before either of those can arise. Martin doesn’t say anything about it, seems to be relieved that Jon’s found a way to manage. It might just be Jon’s imagination that sees a hint of caution in Martin’s eyes. He hopes so; he doesn’t want Martin to be afraid of him. 


	3. St. Petersburg; Vladimir; ???; Tbilisi

They keep moving, thanks to their new visas, through Eastern Europe and into the vastness of Russia. They stay alert for undue attention, and manage to spy a couple more hunters before they themselves are seen. Elias is not giving up, it seems. Jon gets paranoid about them being split up and targeted separately, and decides it’s for the best if they share rooms. Martin doesn’t seem too keen, but agrees in the end.  

It’s fine, mostly. They can usually get twin beds, but when they can’t, Martin sleeps hunched right on one edge of the mattress, with as much space as humanly possible between them. Jon knows himself to be a restless sleeper, a side effect of his ongoing and unpleasant dreams, and puts it down to that. It’s easier to assume Martin just wants to avoid an elbow to the ribs, rather than give credence to the continuing whisper in the back of his head that Martin is afraid of him. That he’s right to be.

In St. Petersburg they visit a woman who hasn’t left her home in nearly twenty years, too fearful of the constant eyes watching her every move. It had begun, she said, when she found a small brass coin in the foundations of a demolished house, engraved with the symbol of a staring, lidless eye. She knew the coin was the source of all her troubles, yet somehow she could never bring herself to part with it. Found it easier to just...not go outside, so they couldn’t see her. The English woman who visited her six years ago had taken the coin, but the eyes had not gone away. They never go away. She glances nervously out the window as she says this, and shudders. Jon can sympathize, but he also wonders why Gertrude had considered this woman’s story related to the Watcher’s Crown. If he had the coin, maybe, he could make something of this. Without it, this is just an exercise in futility.

They have more success in the city of Vladimir. They visit the crypts beneath the Dormition Cathedral, and Jon levers up the lid on one of the sepulchers while Martin keeps watch. Gertrude had noted this as a place to visit, a lead on the Watcher’s Crown, but it seems she never made it here either. So much she had intended, and never had the chance to do. 

“I’m fairly sure this is desecration, or something,” Martin says nervously, bouncing on his toes as he watches the stairs. 

“Probably,” agrees Jon, averting his face from the smell of dry decay that washes over him. He reaches gingerly around the crypt’s occupant and pulls out a mildewed brass scroll case. 

“That’ll do it,” he says, letting the lid grate back into place. Two hours later they flee the city with a pair of hunters on their tail, and end up bumping down country roads at great speed in a dilapidated hatchback Jon bought for the equivalent of two hundred pounds. Martin drives like a maniac, and grins apologetically when Jon tells him so.

“Sorry!” he says cheerily, “I haven’t driven since I got my license, so I’m a bit out of practise. No need for a car in London, you know?”

“When did you get your license?” Jon asks, clinging to the dashboard for dear life. Martin thinks about it for a moment.

“About twelve years ago?” he ventures. Jon clings harder. 

They spend the next several days hiding out in a tiny village on the banks of the Volga, which Jon doesn’t even learn the name of. The lone public house has a single attic room above it that the landlady sullenly rents them. The room does not seem intended for human habitation, ventilated by a hole in the roof, and furnished with a rickety table and a couple of elderly mattresses that Jon’s sure he saw the landlady’s son drag upstairs while they paid. It’s out of the way, however, and hopefully they can lay low here while the hunters lose their trail. 

Jon spends the first day studying the scroll from the crypt, which contains details of an attempted Watcher’s Crown ritual in the twelfth century. The scroll has not been treated kindly by the years, but Jon can pick up the gist of it. The Avatar, the Conduit, the Bound Powers. It all makes sense, of a sort. He outlines his findings to Martin, who nods and pushes a bowl of steaming _pelmeni_ into his hands.

“This is big, right?” he says, then: “Eat.”

The _pelmeni_ are delicious, stuffed with minced pork and dipped in sour cream, and Jon surprises himself by eating ravenously.

By the next morning his appetite is gone, and he’s starting to feel the symptoms of what he really tries not to think of as withdrawal. He spends the day trying to ignore it, studying the scroll intently, referencing against Gertrude’s notes and other texts. He waves away Martin’s attempts to persuade him downstairs to the pub for lunch, or outside for air, and can’t bring himself to touch the piquant stew Martin brings him. His dreams that night are worse than usual, and he wakes in a cold sweat, cowering from an unseen observer. He barely dozes through the rest of the night. 

The second day he gives in and goes outside. Spends hours walking around the village streets, painfully alert for anyone who might snag the edges of his awareness. Nobody does, and he returns to the room frustrated and a little afraid. His last statement was days ago, before Vladimir - he can’t even remember when, he’d been so caught up in chasing their lead on the scroll. He thinks it’s been some time since he’s gone without for this long. Taking the statements as he has been, direct and unfiltered through tape, seems to satisfy the Eye for longer, but he fears the backlash may be stronger as well. 

“We can leave,” Martin suggests that evening, looking worried. “Find a bigger town - you might have more luck there.”

“We can’t,” says Jon, “We need to stay out of sight long enough for those hunters to move on. I’ll be fine for a few more days.”

He tries to study his notes again, sitting at the small table in the corner. Usually he can lose himself in the written word enough to drown out the worst of the discomfort. Now he finds himself staring down at the pages in front of him, the words swimming in front of his eyes, his dull headache sharpening to stabbing pain when he tries to focus. He winces and shuts his eyes. It’s useless.

Martin sits down in the only other spot at the table, oblique to Jon. He sets his hands on the table and turns to face Jon, looking determined. 

“All right,” he says, and takes in a deep breath. “Statement of Martin Blackwood, archiv - umm, former archival assistant at the Magnus Institute.”

“I already took your statement, Martin,” Jon sighs. He has been _aware_ of Martin, of course, the same way he is of other potential statement givers, but he doesn’t think hearing about Jane Prentiss again will satisfy the Eye’s hunger. 

“This is a different statement,” Martin tells him. There is a slight quaver in his voice, but his expression is resolute. 

“Oh...right,” says Jon. He feels a covetous thrill run through him, greedy at the thought of new knowledge, immediately followed by a wave of shame. He’s asked so much of Martin already, he can’t -

“It’s fine,” Martin says, as if Jon’s thoughts are showing on his face. “I don’t mind. It was a long time ago.”

All the cold observation that Jon has felt focused on him the past days suddenly...shifts, focuses _through_ him instead, and he sees Martin go pale. The click and hiss of the non-existent recorder echoes through Jon’s skull, and he opens his mouth.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, as kindly as he can.

Martin tells him, and as the story unfolds Jon feels a terrible familiarity crawling up his spine. He never assumed, of course, that he was the only person to ever encounter _A Guest for Mr. Spider_ in the wild, but to hear it from someone he knows - to think he had never _known_ \- it’s either an uncanny coincidence or something far more sinister. From Martin’s description, it had been less than a year between Jon’s experience with the book and his own, which definitely makes Jon lean towards the sinister explanation. Martin had run across the book accidentally in his primary school library, but otherwise his account unspools in a distressingly similar pattern as Jon’s, up until the end. 

Martin had not had a childhood bully to take the book away from him. Martin had walked right up to the door, and knocked on it, and it had opened in front of him, the smell of copper and decay washing over him from within.

“I - don’t remember what happened after that,” Martin tells him, frowning abstractedly. “I woke up in my own bed, and my mum gave me a talking to for messing around in abandoned buildings. Apparently the floorboards gave way under me and I fell about fifteen feet, knocked myself out. Lucky someone heard the noise and found me. Nothing serious, just a few bruises and scrapes. The only weird thing was a pair of perfectly round wounds on my neck, that the doctor said must have been from exposed nails or something. I wouldn’t even remember, except they disappeared completely within a couple of hours of my waking up. Like they’d never been there at all.”

“And there’s nothing else you remember?” Jon asks. Martin shakes his head, then pauses, his eyes going unfocused. 

“Not a memory…” he says, vague and distant, “A dream. Maybe? I remember...arms, reaching to me out of the darkness. They’re awfully long, and shiny, like a beetle’s shell. And a voice. A soft voice. It says... _I have you_. It - ”

He starts suddenly, and blinks a few times at Jon, like someone waking up. He’s still a little pale, but with spots of color high on his cheeks.  

“I - was that all right?” he asks, sounding a little overwhelmed. “Did it help?”

“It, it did,” Jon says. He doesn’t want to say how much it helped, how it’s sated the terrible gaping hunger that flows through him. Martin’s offered something intensely personal to make him feel better, and Jon doesn’t want to ruin that. He doesn’t need to make Martin any more wary of him than he already is. 

“Thank you,” he says instead, pushes all the sincerity he can into those words. Martin smiles at him, a little watery but genuine. Jon can’t remember the last time he made this much eye contact with someone, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels...intimate, like Jon’s shared Martin’s experience rather than just _taking_ it. The moment stretches out like honey, and then Martin leans carefully into his space, and Jon thinks _he’s going to kiss me_ , followed by _I think that’s okay_. It is a tentative kiss, like a question, and Jon can come up with all kinds of reasons why this is a bad idea, but here in a drafty attic in Russia, fugitive and afraid, the only reason that matters is that they _want_. The only answer he can give is _yes_.

When they move apart, Martin lets out a long breath and pushes a hand through his hair, giving a rueful grin.

“I spent a long time talking myself out of ever doing that,” he says, not actually sounding all that unhappy about it.

“I’m, uh, rather glad your resolve didn’t hold,” says Jon, then clears his throat awkwardly. Flirting _(does this count as flirting?)_ has never been his forte, but Martin’s face lights up like he’s said something charming. Martin gets up from the table, and reaches a hand out to Jon, smiling shyly.

“Come here?” he suggests, and Jon does, taking the offered hand and standing. Martin tugs Jon towards him, folding his arms around Jon’s back, hugging him close but not squeezing. It has been...a long time since Jon’s been hugged. Longer than he’d like to think about, although up to now he’s never considered it something lacking in his life. His own hands move carefully up onto Martin’s back, feeling like a man groping blind in unknown territory. He is unsure what to do about Martin’s cheek pressing to his, Martin’s hair tickling his face, Martin’s chest moving up and down against his own. It is almost an overload of sensation, and Jon lets it wash over him, closes his eyes and just holds on. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, listening to the slow rhythm of Martin’s breath, soaking in the warmth of his solid form. It could be forever and he wouldn’t have noticed. Eventually, though, Martin shifts a little, and says, quietly: “All right?” 

Jon nods wordlessly against his shoulder, and feels a quick press of lips against his temple as Martin disengages. 

“You need to get some sleep,” says Martin. Jon starts to collect himself, feeling like he’s actually just been roused from the best sleep of his life. He can’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed. 

“I, yes, you’re right,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He is terribly tired. He quickly strips off shoes and trousers and crawls into the nest of blankets on his mattress, feeling a twinge of disappointment as Martin climbs into his own bed. He tries to think of a way to say _I’d like to sleep with you_ that doesn’t sound like a sexual come on, but, well, there isn’t one, really, not without a whole lot of explanation that he _definitely_ doesn’t want to get into right now. Instead he lies there listening to Martin breathe and reliving that warm embrace in his head until he falls asleep.   

A couple of days later, Jon deems it safe enough to move on, or at least worth the risk. He gives the dingy attic an approving look as they leave: good things happened here. They get in the hatchback and head south.

“You’ll, uh, drive a bit more carefully this time?” Jon asks. Martin grins.

“Unless we run into more hunters,” he says, and pats Jon’s leg reassuringly. That sort of thing has been happening a lot, since the other night. Martin seems to have a craving for physical contact of any kind, from casually affectionate to prolonged and intimate. With that first kiss it was like a floodgate opened, and since then he’s been almost unable to stop touching Jon. Jon’s never thought of himself as someone who _needs_ physical affection, but he finds himself soaking it up like he’s been touch starved his entire life. Finds himself wanting to return that affection in kind, though he sometimes struggles to know how.

It takes them three days to get to Tbilisi, crossing the Georgian border. They end up sleeping in the car one night, curled uncomfortably in reclined front seats. Jon reaches over to clasp Martin’s hand in his as they huddle under their coats, and the way Martin smiles at him tells him he’s done something right.

In Tbilisi they part with the hatchback for five hundred lari. It’s served them well, and Martin gives it a fond pat on the bonnet as they leave. They need to keep moving, but Martin looks exhausted, and Jon has to admit he’s tired after three days in a cramped, uncomfortable car. They can afford a day. 

They check into a cheap hotel, and Martin takes a sheaf of English language pamphlets from the lobby. It’s rather pleasant to act like tourists, strolling through the old town, enjoying the rambling architecture and winding streets. Martin insists they watch the hourly mechanical puppet display at the bizarre leaning clock tower, although the whole ramshackle affair is too reminiscent of the Circus for Jon to enjoy. They walk close together, shoulders brushing occasionally. 

They eat _khachapuri_ at a hole-in-the-wall cafe, then strike out uphill, past the _Mother, Georgia_ statue, to the botanic gardens. The gardens are peaceful, filled with the sounds of running water and living things, and Jon breathes deeply in the fresh air while Martin points out birds he recognizes. They arrive back at the hotel as the sun sets, and Jon can’t remember when he last spent a day just...enjoying himself. There were times during the day that he almost entirely forgot to worry.

“Thanks, Jon,” Martin says, back in their room. 

“What for?” 

“I know this isn’t a holiday - I mean, I _really_ know, with the grave robbing and being chased and all. But it was...nice, getting to spend a day like that.”

_With you_ , Martin doesn’t say, but Jon hears it in his voice, and feels warm all over.

“It was,” Jon agrees. It was more than nice, and he feels enormously guilty about that. In a normal relationship _(is that what this is?)_ an afternoon walking around town isn’t a major highlight. Evading hunters and chasing down artifacts isn’t par for the course. Martin...deserves a normal relationship, with normal relationship things, and with someone who isn’t already halfway to a monster. For some reason, however, Martin’s chosen him, and Jon thinks there’s probably been a mistake somewhere, but he can’t bring himself to try and rectify it. 

Instead, when Martin gets into one of the twin beds, Jon steels himself and climbs in after him. Martin gives him a slight look of surprise, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t hug the edge as he had before, just settles warmly against Jon’s back. The bed is too small, but it’s fine. After a few moments, Martin’s arm goes carefully around Jon, and stays there for the night, holding him through his worst dreams. 


	4. Alexandria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, due to real life commitments. Note that the rating has changed as of this chapter.

Alexandria is not much hotter than Tbilisi, but it is drier, dust swirling up with every breath of wind and getting in Jon’s nose, gritting his eyes. This is the place he has most feared going, has been putting off as long as he can. Yet, he has to know. So many of the leads they’ve followed have been dead or bewildering, leaving him floundering. If there is knowledge here that he can use, he has to seek it. 

The heat dies away at sunset, and settling dew tamps down the dust. Pompey’s PIllar is easy to find, devoid of tourists as night falls. The buildings nearby are nondescript and residential for the most part, and the streets are quiet. Martin reads out street names while Jon consults the map marked with Sergeant Heller’s coordinates. 

“Did we have to do this at night?” asks Martin at one point, plaintive.

“Unless you want to explain climbing into someone’s cellar in the middle of the day, yes we did,” replies Jon testily. He doesn’t like this any more than Martin does, but he is also aware that below the streets of the city there will be precious little difference between night and day. This is less conspicuous.

He had been afraid they wouldn’t find the place at all, or that it would be impossible to access since the explosion that had suspiciously followed Gertrude’s discussion with Sergeant Heller. As they wind through the streets, however, he finds himself as sure of his direction as if he’s being drawn there. He scarcely listens to Martin listing off streets and disregards the map: he _knows_. The feeling grows ever stronger as he walks, until eventually he reaches out and takes Martin’s arm, stopping him in his tracks.

“Over there,” he says, pointing towards a narrow alleyway. Martin tries to squint at the map Jon’s holding loosely in one hand. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. Jon nods. He may never have been so sure of anything before. He tucks the map away in a pocket and takes a step towards the alley, then turns back.

“Stay here,” he tells Martin. 

“What? You can’t be serious!” Martin protests. “No way I’m letting you go down there by yourself.”

“I have to,” Jon says. “What’s down there isn’t dangerous to me.” He’s not actually sure of that, but he _is_ sure it would be extremely dangerous to Martin, and he’s not taking that risk. It would...distract him from what he needs to do.

Martin looks as if he’s about to protest again, and Jon reaches out to grasp both his wrists, pulling Martin’s hands up to his own chest. He can feel Martin’s pulse against his fingertips, strong and steady.

“Please, Martin,” he says. “I need you to wait here. I’ll be back.”

“Promise,” Martin says fiercely. Jon swallows hard. 

“I promise,” he says. He has rarely in his life ever promised anything to anyone, not even himself, but this feels solemn. Martin nods. 

“Okay,” he says. Without thinking, Jon stretches up and presses a swift, hard kiss to his mouth. Then he drops Martin’s hands and turns towards the alleyway. He does not look back over his shoulder.

The alleyway is dark, and his torch beam sweeps over scattered refuse and graffiti as he walks. He feels his destination directly ahead, and then he sees it: a jagged crack gaping between the building and the street, scarcely large enough to squeeze through. He has the feeling that it would be almost unnoticeable by anyone else, but it calls him with absolute clarity. Jon does not hesitate. He is the Archivist. He has every right to enter this archive, to enter every archive. 

The cellar he drops into matches Sergeant Heller’s description, but is littered with chunks of fallen plaster and stone, dark smoke marks on the walls. The bronze grate that guards the passageway below is streaked with soot. It lifts away easily in Jon’s hands, cold and heavy. 

The tunnels beneath are rough hewn stone, cool and dark and dry. He feels the summons down here stronger than ever, a presence he thinks he should know. It feels somewhat akin to how Elias feels in his mind, like the same light shone through a different filter. It is watching him, waiting for him. He can feel his heart racing, and isn’t sure whether it’s with fear or anticipation. 

The archive did not escape damage from the explosion. There are broken stones scattered in places, shaken from the roof or walls, and he passes a couple of tunnels that are half-blocked by rubble. He walks through chambers where scrolls have been shaken out of their niches by the detonation, and lie scattered on the floor or fallen into fragments. Jon shines his torch beam over the intact scrolls, his eyes lingering hungrily on them as he imagines the knowledge they may contain, lost to time. He forces himself to ignore the yearning. That’s not why he’s here. 

Looking at the damage, he thinks of the fire he set in the Archives to cover his escape, and wonders with a regretful pang how much knowledge he destroyed. It can’t have been much of importance, or he would have suffered much more in the process. Still, the thought of any loss of knowledge hurts. He knows that is the Archivist’s thought, but down here he must be the Archivist, as the presence looms ever closer in his mind. 

He finds it in the chamber with the dead crusader, whose pitted cheeks and scratched eye sockets catch the torch’s gleam grotesquely. The creature stands on the other side of the room, its form almost indistinguishable in the dark, and Jon keeps the torch beam away from it. Only its eye glints, single and terrible, the pupil constricting in the light. It shifts, dry and rustling, turns fully towards him.

_Archivisssst…._ it hisses, and Jon does not know if the voice is in his ears or his head. 

“Archivist,” he replies, inclining his head. 

_What bringsss you to me?_

“I want to learn from your great knowledge,” Jon tells it. Flattery can’t hurt. The thing tilts its head to one side inquisitively.  

_You are closssse..._ it observes. _Almosssst become what you mussst be…_

“Yes, that,” says Jon. “I want to understand more about what I’m supposed to be.”

A horrible, choked sound issues from the creature, its hunched form shaking, and Jon realizes it’s laughing.

_You don’t know… How is it that he doesssn’t know his purposssse?_

“As one seeker of knowledge to another,” Jon suggests, “Maybe you can enlighten me?”

_A cage..._ the thing says. _A channel...a catalysssst… All these thingsss are the Archivissst’s right and duty…_

“I see…” Jon sighs. Riddles, then. “With all your knowledge, do you think you could, uh, tell me more about the Watcher’s Crown? How the ritual is completed?”

The things shifts again, its robes whispering dryly around it. It takes a step forward.

_I could…_ it hisses. _But firssst you’ll give me sssomething…_

“What do you want?” Jon asks, wary. He slips his free hand into his pocket, closes it around a cold metal object. 

_I haven’t had an asssisstant in a long time…I ssenssse you have one, up above… Give him to me, and I will tell you all you wish to know…_

Jon feels his stomach twist at the creature's words, the very thought making his pulse race with fight or flight adrenaline. He casts around for a counteroffer.

“I only have one assistant right now,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. “I don’t really want to part with him. There must be something else I can offer? There’s been a lot of progress - a lot of discovery - in the past several centuries. There’s a great deal of knowledge I could share?”

The creature gives that awful, coughing laugh again, and takes another step towards him. Its head shakes within the robe.

_Nothing elssssse…_ it says. _I ssssee you, Archivist... What you value mosssst… Give him to me, and I will tell you all you you want to know of the Watcher’ssss Crown… Even how to ssstop it, if you sssso wish...._

That single, glinting eye sweeps knowingly over him, and Jon feels his spine go rigid. The Archivist in him yearns towards the promise of knowledge like a plant to sunlight. What this thing offers, it could be the key to everything, an end to his desperate search. A way to stop Elias. What this thing offers...and what it asks. In his pocket, cold metal slides under his fingertips and settles in his palm. He thinks of Martin’s steady pulse under those same fingers, only a little while ago. He sighs.

“Right,” he says. “That’s, not really an option, I’m afraid. I do rather need him. So...I’ll just be going?” 

He takes a step back towards the door and the creature lunges, its jagged hands reaching for him, skin crackling and cloth rustling. Jon pulls the spider web lighter out of his pocket, flicks the wheel, then tosses it towards the lurching figure. The small flame gutters bravely as it spins through the air, then hits the creature’s dry robes and ignites. The thing goes up like a torch, and Jon is reminded of Trevor’s vampires as he turns on his heel and runs. An awful, guttural shriek comes from behind him, but he doesn’t look back, just runs for the exit as fast as he can, his heart pounding and torchlight bouncing over the stone walls. 

He pulls himself back up into the cellar with a strength he frankly wasn’t sure his arms possessed, and drops the grate into place with shaking hands. No noise comes from below. Jon gets to his feet, trembling a little with adrenaline, and lets out a long whoosh of breath. He’s sorry to have lost the lighter, but it saved his life, and that’s probably as good a use of it as any.

He climbs onto a mound of rubble to reach the gap leading back outside. The adrenaline is starting to ebb away, and in its aftermath his limbs feel weak and heavy, not quite the equal of the task. It takes some wriggling and kicking against the wall to pull himself out. Finally he is back in the street, and the first thing he sees is Martin, standing at the entrance to the alleyway, peering down in the dim glow of the streetlights. It’s a welcome sight.

“Jon!” he calls in a low voice, hurrying forward. “Are you all right? You were gone ages!”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says tiredly. He lets Martin fuss over him, checking him for injuries and brushing dust and cobwebs out of his hair. 

“What happened?” Martin demands. “Did you find what you needed?”

“I - I got enough,” says Jon. As much as he could without paying an unacceptable price, though he will never tell Martin about the trade the thing offered. He got something from it, at least. Maybe more than it intended to give away. _A cage, a channel, a catalyst_. There’s no way to tell if that thing was sane or human enough for its words to be meaningful, but Jon has the feeling that they may be. _Cage_ seems it might make sense, from the context of his darkest dreams. And the Vladimir accounting had spoken of a Conduit. As for catalyst… He shakes his head. Now’s not the time.

“We should get back,” he says. 

Back at the hotel, Jon can’t stop thinking of the thing in the tunnels, that ancient archivist with its baleful eye. What it had asked of him. He thinks of Gertrude, of poor Michael Shelley. Gertrude would surely have defended her actions by their importance: her sacrifice of Michael had saved the world. That’s a poor excuse, to Jon’s mind. Once you rationalize sacrificing someone, where do you draw the line? If the information that creature could offer would help her save the world, would Gertrude have sent another assistant to their doom? He thinks he know the answer to that, and thankfully it is not an answer he could find it in himself to give.

He glances towards the small _en suite_ bathroom, where Martin is humming something unrecognizable while he brushes his teeth. Jon’s chest aches at the thought of anything happening to him, and once again there is that guilt, knowing he should have never brought Martin with him on this hopeless expedition. Never mind that Martin wouldn’t be dissuaded, that’s little more than an excuse Jon made to himself. He knows that if anything  _does_ happen to Martin - if anything has happened in his absence to Basira, or Melanie, or Georgie - it will be his responsibility. Like Tim’s death was his responsibility, and Sasha’s, and what happened to Daisy. 

Gertrude had speculated on the fate of Archivists, whether in time they might become monsters like the thing beneath Alexandria, hungering aberrations, unable to die. Jon does not fear that fate. Jon fears becoming a monster like Gertrude herself, pragmatic and pitiless. He fears that one day, he will be responsible for someone’s death, and he will justify it as a worthwhile sacrifice. 

Martin comes out of the bathroom, stripped down to boxers in concession to the heat, and climbs into his side of the small bed. It’s too warm, really, to share a small space with another body, but the second bed goes ignored. Jon sits on the edge of the mattress beside Martin, and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“All right?” says Martin, looking up at him curiously

“Yes,” Jon tells him, even though he really isn’t. But he is here, with this man who has given up everything for him, gone on the run with him, who somehow cares for him so much. Jon doesn’t understand it, but he wants to. Wants to understand everything about Martin, wants to _see_ him, _know_ him down to the bone, and that may be the Archivist talking, but it is also very much Jon.

He slides his hand across to Martin’s opposite shoulder, leans in close and kisses him, softly. Martin tastes like toothpaste. Jon sits back up, and places his other hand on Martin’s bare chest, liking how Martin’s breath hitches just a little. 

“Can I?” he asks. Martin’s eyes are wide, his lips parted, an almost disbelieving expression on his face.

“I - yeah,” he breathes. “Of - of course. Do you want to, umm - ” He shifts over a little to make space. 

“This is fine,” Jon tells him, rubs his thumb gently over a nipple. Martin shivers. Jon lets his hands begin to wander, focused on the feel of skin beneath his palms, watching each of Martin’s minute reactions as they occur. He runs his hands down Martin’s arms, feeling the hairs rise as his skin goosebumps. Sweeps his fingers over Martin’s shoulders, brushing across the base of his throat where his pulse point jumps. Glides down across chest and ribs and belly, enjoying the small sounds of surprise and pleasure that each touch elicits. 

Martin’s body is just a little soft, but solid beneath, a dependable body. Jon likes it, likes how it feels beneath his hands. Martin’s lips are parted and his breath is coming quick, his cheeks flushed and hair tossed across the pillow. This is how he looks aroused, and Jon takes it in, studies the pinkness of his ears, the hazy gleam of his eyes as he looks back at Jon. It’s all wonderful. 

One of Martin’s hands reaches for him, apparently under the impression that there is some reciprocation needed. A fair assumption for most people, but Jon takes the hand in his own and lifts it, pressing a kiss to Martin’s palm.

“Let me,” he says, quiet but firm. Martin licks his lips and nods. 

Jon releases his hand and continues exploring. He can see Martin’s dick is tenting out his boxers, a damp spot already forming on the cotton. Jon skates his hands back down over Martin’s abdomen and his hips, palms at his erection through the fabric. Martin’s breath catches in his throat, something halfway between a gasp and a whimper. The sound shivers right through Jon. He slips his fingers beneath the elastic hem and eases it down. Martin automatically lifts his hips to accommodate him, his dick springing free and the boxers bunching around his upper thighs. Jon considers tugging them all the way off, but this is where his expedition has been leading. He can save the rest for another time, future mysteries of Martin to unravel. 

Martin’s dick is flushed dark red, looking almost painfully hard. He is biting his lip when Jon looks up at his face, and his fingers are clenching in the sheets as if he has to physically restrain from touching Jon or himself. Jon doesn’t drag it out; he’s not looking to tease or torment here, just explore, and appreciate, and understand. He curls one hand gently around Martin’s erection, and the noise Martin makes at the touch is one Jon will never forget. His dick is feverishly hot, and the skin is very soft. It slides easily under Jon’s hand as he begins to stroke it, the foreskin pulling away from the slick head and up over it again with his movements. 

Jon leaves his other hand splayed over Martin’s heart, which is racing, and looks from Martin’s dick up to his face, which is red and faintly sheened with sweat. He catalogues every gasp and moan and toss of Martin’s head, his fingers curling harder into the sheets and his hips twitching off the mattress involuntarily, pushing into Jon’s grip. Martin’s heart is pounding so hard it is almost alarming, his eyelids fluttering, and he lets out a long, low groan as his dick starts to jerk in Jon’s hand.

“Oh god I love you I love you - ” he gasps breathlessly, semen pulsing slow and hot over Jon’s fingers and Martin’s belly. Jon stops breathing entirely. He strokes Martin through his orgasm, slowing the motion of his hand as it gradually ebbs away. Martin’s heart is still beating fast under his other hand, and Martin is watching him through half-lidded eyes, looking dazed and lovely. Jon doesn’t know if Martin is aware of what he just said. 

“I - that was - ” Martin begins, but doesn’t seem to know how to continue. Jon releases his softening dick as Martin’s pulse starts to level out, quickly wiping his hand off on the sheet. He leans up to kiss Martin again, deeper this time, a slow slide of lips and tongue. Martin’s hands run over his shoulders and back, and he sighs against Jon’s mouth when he pulls away again.

“Do you want me to - ” he asks hesitantly, waving a hand in the general direction of Jon. Jon hesitates for half a second, then shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine,” he says. “I, uh, don’t really go in for - that, much.”

“Oh!” Martin grasps his meaning, eyes widening. “I’m sorry! You should have said, you didn’t need to - ”

“No, no, I wanted to,” Jon hurries to reassure him. “I wouldn’t have - if I didn’t.”

“Okay,” Martin agrees, and smiles though he still looks a little dubious. “C’mere then?” 

“Maybe, uh, you want to have a wash first,” Jon suggests, eyeing Martin’s sweaty and semen spattered form, boxers still twisted around his hips. Martin nods.

“Probably a good idea,” he says, and heads for the bathroom, discarding his underwear on the way. 

Jon moves across to the other bed, which is unrumpled and smells less of sex, and listens to the sounds of water running as Martin showers. He feels oddly excited, after that. He’s never understood why people make such a big fuss about sex. He has the occasional physical urge that he can take care of with quick efficiency, and he’s never really seen the point of involving someone else - or being involved with someone else’s release. He’s done so, infrequently, but it’s always just felt like masturbation with extra, awkward steps. This, though… 

Jon presses the heel of his hand into his groin. His dick is not hardened at all, but he has a definite _awareness_ of it, a low buzz of eroticism. He’s not sure if it’s an Archivist thing, or a Martin-specific thing, but being able to watch, and feel, and hear every sensation Martin’s body went through, knowing that he was causing them, was different to his prior experiences. It was something akin to arousing. When Martin offered to - there was a brief moment when Jon had thought _maybe_ … But he needs time to think about it, process what it all means. Especially what Martin said at the end. Did he mean it? Does he even know he said it? Maybe it’s something Martin says to everyone he has sex with, sort of a peculiar thank you?

Jon shrugs it off as the shower cuts out, undresses down to his underwear, and after a moment’s hesitation, kicks those off as well. He’s seen Martin entirely exposed tonight, it seems only fair to return the gesture. He slides under the sheet and waits for Martin to emerge, freshly showered and naked. Martin smiles at him, still a little stunned and disbelieving.

“Coming to bed?” Jon asks, and Martin doesn’t need to be told twice. They haven’t shared a bed naked before, but it’s less awkward than Jon might have expected, now that the topic of sex - and lack thereof - has been laid out clearly on the table. Martin cuddles in close as usual, up against Jon’s back with one arm around him, his nose pressing into the nape of Jon’s neck. His hair is damp from the shower and tickles a little, but it’s nice. 

“I do - love you,” Martin says quietly against his skin after a few minutes. “I - didn’t mean to tell you like that. Didn’t mean to tell you at all, really. But, I do.”

Jon tries to think of something to say, and fails utterly. 

“It’s all right,” says Martin after a few moments, “I’m not expecting you to say it back or anything. It’s fine, as long as you...don’t mind?” His voice goes hesitant and wavering at the last, like Jon might actually mind, might decide he doesn’t want Martin around anymore. Jon opens his mouth.

“Of course I don’t - ” he begins stiffly, then clears his throat. He can do better. “I’m - I don’t understand,” he tries again, “Why you...feel the way you do about me. But you do, and it’s, it’s more than I deserve. It’s - I’m happy, that you’re with me.”

Martin doesn’t reply, just shifts a little closer and tightens his arm around Jon, breathing warm and heavy against the back of his neck. Jon falls asleep still wondering what it all means.

He wakes to the sound of a phone ringing, and realizes after a groggy moment that it’s the landline by the bed. He flails at it with a hand until he manages to grab the receiver, and lifts it to his ear.

“H’llo?” he mumbles. Beside him, Martin makes a muffled noise of complaint and buries his face further into the pillow. 

“Hello!” a voice says brightly, “This is reception. We have a call for you - would you like me to transfer it to your room?”

Jon blinks blearily at the digital clock by the bed. It’s half past four.

“Who is it?” he asks. 

“He didn’t give a name,” the voice continues, far too cheerful for this early in the morning. “He just said he was a colleague of yours and that you would be very glad to speak with him.”

It can only be Elias. Jon considers his options for a moment. Assuming it _is_ Elias, he already knows where they are. No point in playing coy, and they might as well find out what he wants. Probably just to threaten or gloat, but Elias is arrogant enough that he might let something slip, if Jon speaks to him. 

“Put him through,” he says, and mentally prepares himself for Elias’ smooth, persuasive tones. He does not intend to be talked or tricked into anything. Instead, the voice that reaches his ears is a deep bass, cracked with age but firm and steady.

“Archivist,” it says, and it is not a question. 

“Who is this?” 

“My name is Adelard Dekker. I think it’s time we met.”


	5. Alta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story starts to get rather darker. Please take this as a sign of things to come.

From Alexandria they fly through Istanbul to Tromsø, which takes fourteen exhausting hours and gives them plenty of time to discuss why Jon should definitely go to speak with Adelard Dekker alone, and also why there is absolutely no way Martin is letting him do that.

“It could be dangerous,” Jon says. “We have no way to know what Dekker wants, or if he’s even on our side.”

“Since when has suggesting that you might be in danger been a good way to persuade me not to come along?” Martin asks dryly. “Honestly, Jon. Anyway, from what you say about Gertrude’s notes, it seems like she trusted him.”

“That doesn’t exactly convince me,” says Jon, frowning. “Gertrude’s sense of morality was...big picture, to put it mildly. Just because she thought Dekker was on the right side, doesn’t mean he’s good news for us.”

“Well then, better you have someone to watch your back,” says Martin. “You know I’m right.”

Jon gives up, because yes, Martin is right. Martin’s proven time and again that he can take care of himself - better than Jon, a lot of the time - and they’ve come this far by relying on each other. This is no time to change that because of some misplaced sense of heroic chivalry.

They rent a car, and early the next morning set out for the town of Alta, more than five hours away. It would have been quicker to fly, but Jon has had enough of sitting in cramped airplane seats for a while. At least in the car they can pull over to stretch their legs on occasion. And the paranoid part of him would rather have a way to leave Alta whenever they want, rather than at the mercy of airline schedules.  

It’s a pleasant drive through rugged coastal scenery, the ice blue of the ocean glinting in the sunlight. Martin yawns through the journey. He didn’t sleep well last night, with the midnight sun shining low on the horizon, seeping through the curtains to cast their room in gray twilight. Jon slept fine, but he knows that light disturbs Martin’s sleep at night. He doesn’t quite know how he became aware of that fact, something that entered his consciousness by osmosis over the recent weeks and months, but he is oddly pleased by the knowledge.  

Dekker’s directions lead them to a house on the outskirts of the town, painted a fading blue that almost bleeds into the sky beyond. An elderly, battered Land Rover sits in the driveway. They park around the corner and walk to the front, not trying to conceal their approach. Jon knocks on the door. The voice from the phone answers:

“It’s not locked - let yourself in.”

The interior of the house is strewn with books and papers, esoteric artifacts sitting on bookshelves or discarded on the floor. There are lamps everywhere, burning brightly despite the daylight streaming in through the windows, illuminating every surface. A man is standing in the small kitchen, holding an electric kettle in one hand. He is thin, his face lined and hard. He waggles the kettle.

“Coffee?” he asks, and begins filling the kettle from the tap.

“Adelard Dekker?” Jon asks.

“You guessed it in one.” Dekker says, then raises his eyebrows as he spots Martin. “An assistant,” he muses almost to himself. “That’s interesting - not often you see an Archivist in your condition who still has assistants.”

“This is Martin Blackwood,” Jon says.

“Hi,” says Martin.

“Pleased to meet you both,” says Dekker. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I’ve been hoping to meet you for a long time,” Jon admits. “I read about you from Gertrude’s notes, but I wasn’t sure you were still - ”

“Alive?” He sounds dryly amused.

“Active,” says Jon. “How did you locate us?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I have my ways,” Dekker tells him. “Not unlike your Elias, I would imagine.”

“Not _my_ Elias,” Jon says with distaste, “But I take your point.”

Dekker spoons instant coffee granules into three mugs, and as the kettle begins to steam and hiss, pours the water.

“No milk, sorry,” he says, handing coffee around. Jon holds the mug in his hands without drinking, and sees Martin do the same.

Dekker directs them to sit in the cluttered living room, sweeping files out of the way to make space. Jon perches on the arm of a chair whose seat is piled high with books, while Martin hunches on an uncomfortable looking stool. Dekker takes his seat in the full glare of a floor lamp, sipping from his mug.

“You, umm, have a lot of lights,” Martin observes, looking around the room. Dekker nods acknowledgment.

“I spend my summers in the Arctic Circle these days,” he says. “And it’s not for the scenery, though that is quite stunning. It’s an added measure of safety.”

“Safety?” Jon inquires sharply. Dekker smiles humorlessly.

“For me. Nothing you or your assistant need to worry about.”

He stands up and turns off one of the table lamps, casting a shadow in that corner of the room. Dekker seems to brace himself, then thrusts his arm into the semi-darkness up to the elbow. Instantly, Jon can see a thick, black substance, treacle-like, oozing over his hand from the fingers up over the wrist. It looks to be exuding from his skin, writhing and wriggling further up his arm even as Jon watches. Dekker switches the lamp back on and the substance vanishes instantly. He flexes his fingers a few times, grimacing a little, then returns to his seat.

“What was that?” Martin asks, almost disbelieving.

“An unfortunate souvenir of a run in with the Dark,” Dekker tells him. “The longer I spend in darkness - any amount of darkness - the more it spreads, and it is very keen to spread. I’ve managed to slow it to a crawl by keeping to the light, but eventually it will overtake me.”

“Is there...any way to stop it?”

“Not that I’ve discovered. My plan is to keep it at bay long enough to die through some less undignified means.”

He gives a grim chuckle, then turns his attention to Jon.

“So, Archivist,” he says, “You’ve been traveling. Investigating, it looks like. What are you looking for?”

Jon considers Dekker for a long moment before answering.

“Why do you want to know?” he asks, letting the force of the Archivist’s compulsion flow through those words. He wants the truth of why they’ve been brought here.

Dekker smiles, the lines on his face deepening as he does.

“You’re cautious,” he says, “That’s good. You can’t compel me, but I can assure you, if you are following Gertrude’s footsteps, you and I have the same goal.”

“And what would that be?” asks Jon. He is honestly a bit rattled; it’s been a long time since anyone refused to tell him something he _really_ wanted to know.

“To prevent the Watcher’s Crown ritual from being completed,” Dekker says simply. “There’s no deception here. I’ve spent a long time standing against the horrors that press in around the edges of our world. I’m on the side of humanity.”

“Do you know how to stop it?”

Dekker hesitates for a moment, glancing over at Martin, then back at Jon.

“I think it would be better if we discussed that alone,” he says. “If your assistant doesn’t mind giving us a few minutes?”

Jon isn’t quite sure he wants to be alone with this man, but he needs the information Dekker has. He gives Martin an apologetic look.

“Would you mind, Martin?” he asks. “Just a few minutes.”

Martin looks about to protest, then clamps his mouth shut, a tight, unhappy expression on his face. He stands up.

“Fine,” he says, heading for the door. “I’ll just go and wait in the car, then.”

Dekker watches as Martin shuts the door behind him, then turns back to Jon. He sets his coffee mug down on the table beside him, which is littered with papers and cryptic objects. He picks up one of the curios and begins to turn it over absently in his hands. Jon can’t quite make out what it is - a stone carving, maybe, or an oddly formed seashell.

“How much do you know about the Watcher’s Crown?” he asks. 

“Bits and pieces,” Jon admits. “I’ve been gathering all the information I can, but it’s...scattered.”

“Each of the Fears has its own ritual, and they vary in fundamental ways from each other. The Hive’s is purely chaotic, occurring where ever its corruption reaches critical mass in a site of significant power. You’ve experienced that for yourself, from what I understand?”

“I - yes, I have,” says Jon. The reminder of Jane Prentiss still makes his skin itch, a shudder squirming up his spine.

“The Spiral builds its impossible edifice of doors, and the Hunt is similarly disorganized to the Hive, a gathering of beasts acting on instinct to worry at the throat of reality. The Stranger, well, I needn’t tell _you_ about that. And so on. The Beholding’s ritual is unique, in that it _must_ involve all of the other Fears.”

“The statements,” Jon says. “From people who’ve had direct contact with the Fears. That’s why Elias has been...directing me towards them. That’s why I’ve been - _collecting_ them, and - “

“And _observing_ them,” Dekker says grimly. “The Fears thrive on being unknown and incomprehensible. Fear lurks in shadows and corners, in unexplored expanses and the deepest recesses of the human brain. The Fears have power because they are elusive, they evade our rational minds. But the power of Beholding lies in knowledge, in understanding. Its ritual is to observe, and classify, and thus to _consume._ To expose and comprehend the other powers, subsuming their power to its own, making it all-encompassing of fear. That is the Watcher’s Crown.”

Dekker is still fidgeting with that object in his hands, and Jon still can’t figure out what it is. It seems to...shift, as he looks at it, making his eyes water. Sometimes he’s not entirely sure there’s anything in Dekker’s hand at all. It’s very distracting. He catches himself staring at it, and blinks, returning his gaze to Dekker.

“And what happens once the ritual is completed?”

“There’s no way to know. The world changes, somehow, terrifyingly and forever. Whatever it is, it will be bad for every living thing on earth.”

Jon nods, slowly. That sounds about par for the course.

“Do you know how to stop it?”

“If the ritual is allowed to begin,” Dekker says, “Stopping it would be...difficult. You know what it took to stop the Unknowing, and Gertrude experienced the same with the Great Twisting. She was barely able to interrupt it, and she never wanted to let another ritual get that close. Her intent with the Unknowing was to _prevent_ it before it could ever start. Had she lived - ”

He breaks off with a deep sigh, shaking his head.

“Elias is moving his plans into place,” he says. “He’s wanted this for a long time, but Gertrude always refused to cooperate, and he stayed patient because she was too valuable to dispose of. Up until she wasn’t.”

“And then he had me,” says Jon. This is not new information, not really, but hearing it set out in this way makes his stomach drop into his shoes. He feels a little lightheaded, cold sweat prickling his forehead.

“You can’t be blamed,” Dekker says, “For all her excellent qualities, Gertrude never considered the future beyond her tenure as Archivist. I think she expected to destroy the Institute before that became necessary. She never planned for a successor, and kept her knowledge extremely secret to avoid alerting Elias to her plans.”

“So what do we do?”

“We prevent the ritual before it starts. I’ve been doing my best to...remove some of the components, in order to delay Elias’ progress, but they are too easily replaced for that to be an effective method.”

Cold realization begins to crawl slowly up Jon’s spine at his words. Those doors in his mind, once open, now sealed and sinking into obscurity. Those dreams he can no longer reach.

“Removing them,” he says numbly. “You’ve been _killing_ them.” He feels sick. Many of the individuals he’s taken statements from have been, well, monsters. But to think that speaking with him marked them for death is - god - he can't even hold the thought in his head. Dekker inclines his head, his expression solemn and steady.

“It isn’t something I enjoy,” he says. “I’m no hunter. But as I said, I’m on the side of humanity. The things I kill can rarely be called human. However, I know a fool’s errand when I’m on one, and I don’t intend to spend the rest of my years on Earth chasing avatars while Elias gathers more. There’s one way I could set the Eye’s plans back by years, though. Maybe by decades. Buy some time for a more permanent solution, either from me, or from those who follow.”

“Remove something Elias can’t replace so easily,” says Jon, with dawning comprehension. “Such as...the Archivist.”

Dekker is gazing levelly at him.

“I’m sorry, Archivist,” he says. “This should never have been your burden to bear. But you must understand, what Elias plans for you is utter horror. He will have you consume the other Fears in their purest form, to catalyze his own transformation into the absolute representation of Beholding. He will make you complicit in his destruction of our very reality. I am - so sorry to have to ask this, but have you considered that there may be an...easier escape?”

Jon isn’t an idiot. Of course he’s considered that if he simply - wasn’t around, then Elias would be back to square one again. It’s a thought that he’s found himself dwelling on, when he’s felt rather less than hopeful, and at other times has been appalled at himself for even entertaining. The latter, he must admit, more and more frequently since he and Martin began their...whatever it is. In the end, however, the fact is this: Jon does not want to die.

“It wouldn’t stop Elias for long,” he says, hearing the low frantic note in his own voice. “Look how far he managed to get with me in just a few years. If I hadn’t found the information Gertrude hid, I might never have figured it out. Can we be sure the next Archivist would be so lucky?”

“We can’t,” says Dekker wearily. “And it never stops them for long. It’s a constant battle, constant sacrifice to save the world. Gertrude understood that.”

“So people just keep dying to keep these _fears_ at bay? There must be a better way. With the Unknowing, we were able to set them back by, by _centuries_ , maybe. We could kill Elias - ”

“Could you?” Dekker inquires placidly. He stands up, still holding that strange item in one hand. Jon finds himself unable to stop staring at it. His head is swimming, and he feels nauseous. What is that thing?

“Elias is well protected,” says Dekker. “And nowadays he sees more than probably anyone else on Earth. Getting to him with lethal intentions would be almost impossible. And you are his Archivist. Can you say with certainty that if you were standing before him, in the center of his power, you would have the strength of will to drive home the knife?”

As he says the word, the object in his hand shifts and Jon is looking at a blade, curved and wicked. Then it changes again, coiling like a ball of twine. He blinks uncomfortably.

“I - ” he says. He’s...not sure. He hates Elias with passionate intensity, despises how the man has used and twisted him to his own ends, manipulating and controlling him. But he is the Archivist, and Elias is the core of the Magnus Institute, and when it comes down to it, he does not know if the Eye would permit its hand to stab at its heart. Maybe Dekker is right. His head is spinning; it’s difficult to think. Maybe - 

“I would like this to be your choice,” Dekker says. “As it was Gertrude’s. You see what I hold in my hand?”

Jon looks again, sees nothing in Dekker’s hand. He concentrates, and the shape of the knife comes into focus again, before morphing away into a stylized quill pen made of bronze.

“Of course you don’t, not truly,” Dekker says. “Nobody does. This is the Liar’s Knife. It has several interesting properties. It’s difficult to see - even if you know what you are looking for, it defies comprehension. And it allows its bearer to resist the Archivist’s compulsion, as you saw earlier. I tested it a great deal, with Gertrude, and she could never compel a single word from me as long as I held it.”

Jon gets to his feet. His heart is pounding, adrenaline flooding his system. He feels sick and dizzy, struggling now to focus on the knife, on anything.

“In addition to its more rarefied properties, this is also a very sharp knife. Gertrude made me promise, a long time ago, that if she were to go down this road, it would be _her_ knife. You understand?” Dekker’s voice is solemn. “And now I’m afraid it must be your knife, but I want to offer you the choice to accept it freely. Will you? For the good of all humanity?”

Dekker is between him and the door. Martin and and freedom are on the other side. Dekker sees Jon looking past him, towards the exit.

“Your assistant,” he says. “You care about his well being, don’t you? If you accept this willingly, I can ensure his safety from Elias. I can make you that promise.”

Jon frowns. It’s...difficult to know what to do right now, but he knows that he wants Martin to be safe, probably more than anything. But...Martin will be terribly annoyed if he gets himself killed. He shifts, sternly reminding his legs how to move when they feel heavy and jelly-like.

“I see,” Dekker sighs, resigned. He takes a step towards Jon, the Liar’s Knife grasped more firmly in his hand. Jon moves, staggers clumsily to his right, flailing at a side table and tipping it over with a crash, a desk lamp hitting the ground and throwing shafts of darkness across the room. Dekker flinches instinctively from the shadows, and Jon takes the opportunity to lurch past him. An instant later, Dekker is on him, and yanks Jon back by the arm just as the door slams open. Martin is standing there, wild-eyed.

“What’s going on?” he demands, and without waiting for a response lunges at Dekker. Jon feels hot pain in his arm, and something that looks like a china cup goes spinning into a corner. Dekker’s thin form stumbles back under Martin’s rushing weight. His foot catches on the fallen lamp and he topples back hard, his head cracking against the wall with a sharp report. He hits the ground and lies still.

Martin whirls, breathing hard, and looks at Jon, who is leaning heavily against the wall.

“You’re bleeding!” he exclaims. Jon looks down to see blood seeping out of his arm. That explains the pain, then.

“It’s fine,” he manages to say. “Just grab that - that thing he dropped and let’s go.”

“The - what is that?” Martin asks curiously, reaching for the object that now looks to Jon like a black plastic stapler.

“A knife,” he says. "A very dangerous one." Martin picks it up gingerly between finger and thumb, and tucks it into his jacket pocket. On the ground, Dekker is starting to groan and shift. Martin carefully ducks under Jon’s uninjured arm, taking most of Jon’s weight across his shoulders as they retreat. He kicks over a floor lamp on the way out for good measure, a wedge of shadow striping down the center of the room. Martin half-drags Jon around the corner to their rented car, and leans him up against the passenger side.

“Get in the car,” he tells Jon firmly, then runs back towards the house.

“Martin!” Jon calls after him, “What are you - ” A wave of dizziness overtakes him and he thinks better of following. He climbs carefully into the passenger side of the car to avoid jostling his injured arm, breathing slowly and concentrating on not passing out. Half a minute later, Martin gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“What on earth were you doing?” Jon demands.

“I slashed his tires,” says Martin with a wild, elated grin. He flourishes what looks like a small wooden frog. “This thing is really, _really_ sharp.”

“That’s - good thinking,” Jon says. It will keep Dekker off their tracks for a while at least. “Can you put it away now?” His head is spinning more than ever, and he’s quite sure now that it is at least partly because of the knife. Martin tucks it back into his jacket, and starts the car. He drives out of Alta faster than is probably safe, hands tense on the wheel and eyes flicking constantly to the rearview mirror. Once he apparently judges they’re far enough from the town to be safe, he pulls over by the side of the road and turns to Jon.

“Let me see your arm,” he says. Jon shrugs off his jacket and jumper painfully, and pulls his arm out of his shirt sleeve. The layers of clothing are slashed right through, and smeared with blood. The wound on his upper arm is long and shallow.

“We should go to a hospital,” Martin says, sounding worried. Jon shakes his head.

“It’s barely a scratch,” he says. “I’ve always bled a lot. One time when I was ten I cut my scalp open the corner of a table and I swear my grandmother thought I was going to die.”

He’s still feeling shaky, and his mouth seems to be running of its own accord, which might mean he’s in shock, but Martin gives a relieved laugh at the anecdote so it’s probably okay.

“It’s almost stopped already - look,” Jon continues. The blood has slowed to a mild oozing. Martin frowns at it, but gives a sigh of acquiescence.

“All right,” he says. “I have some first aid stuff back at the hotel. I can take care of it when we get back to Tromsø.” He hesitates for a moment. “Umm...should we even go back?”

“We don’t have much choice,” says Jon, pulling his jumper back on. “All our bags are there. We probably should have brought them with us, but, well, I wasn’t exactly expecting this. We’ll...just be careful, tonight, and move on tomorrow. I can’t imagine Dekker will try anything in public, even if he follows us.”

Martin nods tensely, and then says:

“Was he - was he trying to kill you?”

“I - yes,” Jon says weakly. “He...had his reasons. Can we, uh, talk about this later? I’m feeling a bit - not great.”

“Okay,” says Martin, chewing on his lower lip. His anxious gaze lingers on Jon for a handful of moments, before he turns back to the wheel and starts the car again. Something occurs to Jon.

“Martin,” he asks, “How did you know to come back when you did?”

“I, umm, I don’t know,” Martin admits. “I just sort of...had a feeling?”

“Huh,” says Jon. He’s not sure what to think about that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events are stretching a little longer than I originally intended, so I now expect this will go to ten chapters. Apologies to anyone who likes Adelard Dekker. I like him myself, but he's too much of a Gertrude-like pragmatist to be good news for Jon at this stage.


	6. Tromsø; Oslo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly people having emotions at each other, and man, it was tough to write. Next one should be a little quicker, I hope.

Jon sleeps, or at least pretends to, most of the drive back to Tromsø. He’s still feeling lightheaded and weak, but mostly he’s not ready to answer the questions he knows Martin must have. He will, but right now it’s too much. He needs time to think, to decide what to do next.  

They get back to the hotel without incident. Martin locks the door behind them, while Jon sits down on the bed. He rolls his shoulder, which has stiffened up over the past few hours, and winces as pain jabs down the length of his arm.

“Strip,” Martin commands, and Jon complies without protest. The blood has dried and caked, and he peels his shirt away from the skin with a low hiss. Martin digs out a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of sterile bandage, and sits on the bed beside Jon. He soaks a cotton pad with antiseptic and grasps Jon’s injured arm with his other hand.

“This will sting,” he warns, then swabs the wound, careful not to catch the edges. It does sting, but not too much, and Jon smiles at Martin’s look of worried concentration as he finishes cleaning the dried blood away and begins to apply the bandage.

“Thank you,” he says. “You, uh, you seem to be making a habit of saving me.”

“Only because you’re making a habit of risking your life,” Martin grumbles. He finishes wrapping the bandage and tucks the end. “You really should get stitches, you know. It’s probably going to scar.”

“What’s one more?” Jon laughs weakly, but Martin doesn’t seem to find it very amusing. 

“So,” he says, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Jon doesn’t want to. Martin already knows he’s a monster, that he preys on people’s worst memories for his own macabre needs, that he’s part of a ritual that will end the world as they know it. The details that Dekker added only make it worse. Still, he knows he can’t hide this.

“Dekker is trying to stop the Watcher’s Crown,” he says wearily. “He’s been killing people - avatars of the Fears - to delay it, but he thinks Elias is moving too fast. The Archivist’s death would be the most effective way to delay the ritual, and he wanted me to - to volunteer. He was...desperate, I think. He’s trying to save humanity from, well, from things like me.”

He laughs again, without humor, self-mocking.

“Right…” says Martin, slowly. He goes silent, frowning, and Jon waits on tenterhooks. After everything, this might finally be too much, and he wouldn’t blame Martin if it was. It isn’t safe for him to be around Jon - isn’t safe for anyone. Martin thinks for a long moment, then lets out a long breath.

“Right,” he says again finally. “Well, we can’t stay here tonight.” He pulls out his phone and starts to tap at the screen.

“Sorry?” says Jon, bewildered.

“If Dekker is as desperate as you say, he’s not going to let a set of slashed tires stop him. And he managed to track us down in _Egypt_ , so he knows what he’s doing. There’s  - ” He taps the screen again. “ - a flight to Oslo this evening? That would at least get us some distance, and we can decide where to go from there.”

“Right,” says Jon, “Okay. That...makes sense.” And maybe he hasn’t been thinking sensibly, since the encounter with Dekker. Too distracted to think clearly, caught up in what’s to come. Which, he needs to talk to Martin about as well, but not yet. Not until they’re somewhere they can talk - or maybe shout. He can’t quite believe Martin’s taken everything so far in stride, but he knows this next will part will be difficult.

They take the last flight to Oslo, and Jon spends the trip reading, combing through Gertrude’s notes and the information they’ve gleaned in the past weeks. He thinks of how Dekker described the Archivist’s role in the Watcher’s Crown - _consuming_ the Fears in their purest form, catalyzing the Avatar’s transformation. He thinks of that twelfth century Vladimir scroll, its wording echoing Dekker’s. He thinks of the Lascaux cave painting, a circle of kneeling figures beneath a great Eye. 

Worshipful? Or subjugated, about to be consumed?

In Oslo they check into an airport-adajcent chain hotel, its lobby populated with bored business travelers in rumpled suits. Jon would like nothing more than to crawl into the bed with its overstuffed pillows, curl up beside Martin and fall asleep. But he owes Martin a proper discussion, and he doesn’t think it’s fair to delay any longer.

“Martin,” he says, “We, uh, we need to discuss what we’re going to do next.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Martin asks plaintively. He looks exhausted, and Jon wishes he could put this off. 

“No, it - it can’t, I’m afraid,” says Jon. Martin smiles tiredly and sits down on the bed beside Jon. 

“All right,” he says, “So what’s the plan?”

“We’re running out of options,” Jon begins. He’s been rehearsing this in his head for hours, but that doesn’t make it any easier. “All we’ve found so far are dead ends and information that’s too vague to be useful. Nothing that tells us how to stop Elias. We - I don’t think the two of us can do this. We need help. I had hoped Adelard Dekker would be that, but, well - ”

“Basira will help,” says Martin, “And Melanie, for all she’s not exactly your biggest fan these days. She hates Elias far more, she’d jump at the chance.”

“I, uh, don’t think there’s a lot Basira and Melanie can do to help,” Jon says, “And even if they could, I don’t want to drag them into this. They’ve both been through enough. We need - allies, who can stand up against Elias. Against the Beholding.”

Martin’s brow furrows, and then his eyes go wide.

“No,” he says. “Really?”

“The Powers have a long history of interfering with each other’s plans,” Jon says. “None of them want any of the others to complete their ritual and gain ascendancy. I’m not saying it’s ideal - ”

“Not ideal?” says Martin, incredulous. “Insane is more like it. You really want to fight the Beholding by joining up with one of the other Fears?”

“Temporarily,” Jon insists. “I’m not suggesting becoming best friends with the Flesh or anything, just - working towards a common goal. I - I honestly can’t see any other way forward at this point, Martin.”

Martin shakes his head disbelievingly. There is a tremor in his voice when he speaks.

“Everything we know about these Fears, everything we’ve seen and - and experienced for ourselves… They’re _monsters_ , Jon. They can’t be _negotiated_ with. And you want to walk up and ask them for help?”

Jon’s heart aches, because he knows exactly where Martin’s head is right now, and even after years he hasn’t forgotten his guilt for abandoning Martin to Jane Prentiss. For not being _better_ when Martin needed him. Even knowing Martin doesn’t blame him, hearing that memory of terror in his voice is almost too much to bear. That’s why Jon knows he’s made the right decision.

“Not just any of them,” he says. “Some are too chaotic, or simply disinterested. I don’t think an avatar of the End or the Hive could be made to care. But some of them have more human faces. They can be spoken to, at least. Maybe reasoned with, persuaded that it’s in their best interests to stop Elias.”

“Do you mean the Lukas family?” Martin asks skeptically. “Because I don’t think they’ll be interested.”

“No, you’re right,” says Jon, “They're entirely bought into Elias’ plans. But there are others - the Fairchilds, the Lightless Flame. What’s left of the Church of the Divine Host. Where we are right now, we’re not far from Ny-Ålesund. If there’s a connection left to the Dark, it might be there. I think it’s worth exploring. And - ” He takes a deep breath. “And I need to go alone.”

Martin opens his mouth to protest, but Jon pushes ahead before he can say anything.

“Please, Martin,” he says. “I’ve put you in far too much danger already. I never meant - ” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “This was never your problem to solve. It’s - it’s too much, for anyone who isn’t at least halfway to a monster.”

Jon stops talking, swallows hard. There are half a dozen lies he could have told Martin to get him out of the way, wild goose chases to send him on, excuses he easily could have fabricated to give Martin the slip. He could have simply waited until Martin was asleep tonight and sneaked out. That’s what he would have done once, what he tried to do in London, months ago. That’s Gertrude, who didn’t trust anyone, who concealed and manipulated and used people right up until she died, alone. That’s not what he wants to do anymore. Even if Martin hates him for it, he needs to be honest. 

Martin is staring at him, jaw set, eyes angry and wounded. He starts to say something, then shuts his mouth and turns his head away for a moment. When he turns back, his eyes are damp and red-rimmed, but his expression is determined.

“What Dekker said,” he says, his tone brittle, “Is that still how you think of me? As your assistant?”

“I - what?” Jon is thrown; this isn’t what he expected.

“You asked me to leave so you could talk to him,” Martin continues. “After everything, I thought you trusted me. But you asked me to leave. And now, you’re asking me to leave again.”

“I - ” says Jon, “I don’t - ” He hesitates, struggling to think of how to answer. Martin shakes his head, and goes to stand up. Jon’s hand reaches out without conscious thought and grabs his wrist. He feels somehow close to panic, something terribly important hanging in the balance here.

“You’re right,” he blurts out. “I have thought of you that way, at least a bit. But not because I  don’t trust you - you must believe that. I trust you more than anyone. It’s, well, habit I suppose, to feel like I’m responsible for you. For your safety. That’s why I don’t want to put you in any more danger than I already have.”

He decides not to mention the fact that the Beholding still also considers Martin one of the Archivist’s assistants, as evinced by the continuing absence of Martin’s statements from Jon’s dreams. He somehow doesn’t think that logic would help him here. Martin gives him an exasperated look, but sits back down on the bed beside him.

“I’m not your responsibility, Jon,” he says wearily, “And you have to stop thinking that I am.”

“I...I know that, honestly. It’s just...difficult, to not want to keep you safe, when the thought of anything happening to you is - ”

Jon breaks off, unsure how to continue. The thought of anything happening to Martin is, well, unthinkable. He’s not sure how Martin Blackwood became the most important person in his life, but here they are, and he has no idea how to tell Martin that. 

“If you trust me,” Martin tells him firmly, “You’ll let me help. This isn’t about you and me, Jon. This is a whole - ” his free hand sketches a dramatic arc “ - saving the _world_ situation. Keeping me safe won’t do much good if Elias gets his way, will it?”

“I suppose not,” says Jon. His hand is still clasped around Martin’s wrist, and Martin gently removes it and then settles Jon’s palm in his own, interlacing their fingers.

“I’m starting to think that, that maybe I was meant to help you,” says Martin, soft and pensive. “Today, with Dekker, I just _knew_ something was wrong, that I had to go back for you. And even that day at the Archives - I was sure I had my wallet with me. I should never have had to go back. Maybe I’m supposed to be the one keeping _you_ safe.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He feels overwhelmed, a tangle of conflicting feelings coiling through his rib cage. So he doesn’t say anything, instead leans in and kisses Martin, just a lingering press of lips but he tries to say everything he can with it. Martin’s expression is serious when he pulls away. 

“You’re not leaving me behind,” Martin says, and it isn’t a question. “We’re in this together.”

“Yes,” says Jon, his heart aching with emotion he cannot classify. “Yes, all right.”

Martin is looking at him with soft eyes, and Jon wonders at his own boldness even as he shifts back on the bed, still holding Martin’s hand, tugging Martin with him until he is leaning back against the headboard and Martin’s knees land between his thighs. He cranes his neck up and Martin, kneeling over him, ducks his head, kisses Jon sweet and slow, one hand still clasped in Jon’s, the other coming up to frame his jaw. 

Jon shivers. He always feels intensely _present_ while kissing Martin, in a way he has otherwise only ever felt while taking a statement. He has a good idea what that means, he thinks, but it frightens him as much as he yearns towards it. 

The kiss grows deeper, tongues pressing together, warm breath and low sounds. Jon slips his hand out of Martin’s in favor of cupping the back of his neck to draw him even closer. He slides down against the wall, pulling Martin with him, and Martin goes readily until Jon is lying propped against the mound of pillows with Martin stretched out over him, pressed together from head to toe. Martin’s hands move up and slide into Jon’s hair, and he bites gently at Jon’s lower lip. Jon hears himself make a soft, pleased sound.

Martin is sighing into his mouth, and Jon recognizes the little telltale signs of his arousal: his rapid pulse, the low, yearning sounds he makes, the way his eyelids flutter as his cheeks color. Jon likes knowing that this is all for him, that he makes Martin react this way. The feeling of _knowing_ , of _seeing_ , is similar to what he gets from the statements, but the rest is...very different. 

Jon is acutely aware of everywhere Martin’s body is touching his, from the caress of lips to Martin’s fingers tugging gently at his hair, from the brush of Martin’s collar against his throat, to the heavy press of Martin’s chest and thighs and groin against his own. Soon he feels Martin’s erection nudging against his hip without urgency. It’s something that’s become normal over the past couple of weeks they’ve been intimate, and Martin never pushed the issue until Jon, well, took matters into his own hands in Alexandria. Even then, he accepted Jon’s lack of reciprocal interest with easy understanding.

The thing is, Jon isn’t so sure he’s entirely uninterested. The low stirring of arousal he experienced last time is unfolding through him again, gradual but definite. He can feel heat slowly pooling in his groin at every sound and touch of Martin against him. It is different from the sporadic physical urges he has, which are more akin to scratching an itch than anything else. This is entirely focused on the experience of being _here_ , _now_ , with _this person_ , and it is intoxicating. 

Part of Jon wants to follow this feeling, see how far he can take it, but he also thinks it would be unfair to Martin, to start something he may not want to finish. His prior sexual experiences with other people have been unsatisfying and frankly off-putting, and Jon doesn’t want to associate that with Martin. He vacillates internally, while Martin strokes his hair and kisses him so deep he feels consumed, and when he hears himself moan and feels his hips twitch involuntarily upwards, he knows he can’t be a coward. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard.

“Can we - ” he gasps softly, “I mean, I’d like to - if you want to - ”

Martin is looking at him with a mix of disbelief and yearning.

“I, umm, I thought you didn’t - ”

“Ah, not usually,” says Jon, “But, I - ” 

He kisses Martin again, quick and hard.

“I want to,” he says, “But, is it okay if we have to stop?”

“Of course,” says Martin, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you, you idiot. Anything you want, anything at all, it’s all fine. Just tell me.” 

“Just - just kiss me, for now?” asks  Jon, his nerves jittering. Martin does, careful and thorough, and Jon feels it shivering up his spine. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this aware of physical sensation before. Every touch of Martin’s fingers to his hair, his cheek, his jaw, is exciting. Each movement of Martin’s body against his thrills him deeply. This would, he thinks, be better skin to skin.

“Can you - would you take this off?” he asks, a little plaintive, tugging at the hem of Martin’s shirt.

“Yes, of course, yes,” Martin gasps, and sits up, yanking the fabric over his head. Jon recognizes the flush of heat across his chest, and likes that he does. He pulls his own shirt awkwardly off, his injured arm clumsy, and when Martin presses back down to kiss him again he knows he is right, this is so much better. Before, in Alexandria, he had felt Martin’s excitement as something outside himself, something he was observing and learning about. Like this, it is so much more immediate, skin brushing on skin so he can experience Martin’s warmth, can feel his thudding heartbeat against Jon’s chest. Martin moans against his mouth, strokes his skin, and Jon has never felt so wanted in his life. Has never wanted so much.

Jon feels emboldened, because Martin loves him, and Martin said it’s okay, whatever happens. He reaches up and grasps one of Martin’s hands in his, and pulls it down between them, to his groin. Martin gasps against his mouth, keeps kissing him, even as his hand starts to rhythmically massage Jon’s dick. He is half hard already, from the contact between them, and the combination of Martin’s hand stroking him, Martin’s body pressed firmly against his, Martin kissing him like he’s the most wonderful thing in the world, is enough to arouse him fully. He is finding it hard to think, to do anything but breathe and run his hands over the skin of Martin’s back, down his ribs and over his arms. 

“I think we should - get these off,” he manages finally, grasping at Martin’s belt. Martin laughs.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he says breathlessly, rolling onto his side and unfastening his trousers. He wriggles quickly out of them, and Jon follows suit nervously, intensely aware of the erection pressing out against his underwear. He’s been completely naked in front of Martin before, but he’s never felt so utterly exposed, his skin tingling with sensation. 

“Oh,” Martin says softly, eyes roaming over Jon’s body hungrily. “I - can I see you? Is that okay?”

Jon nods silently, anxious and longing, and Martin carefully hooks his fingers into the waist of Jon’s boxers, sliding them down over his hips to his knees. Jon kicks them off, and Martin is looking at him with an expression of absolute affection and desire, like Jon is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Martin skims off his own pants, and his dick springs up eagerly, flushed and hard. Jon reaches for him, because this at least he knows. Martin makes a soft sound when Jon’s hand wraps around his dick, and reaches his own hand towards Jon, before hesitating.

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yes, definitely - more than okay,” Jon breathes, and then Martin’s hand curls loosely around his erection, and he gasps. Martin begins to stroke him gently, like he’s not in any rush, like he just wants Jon to feel good, and oh, he does. They get closer together, their legs tangling and breath mingling, aiming clumsy kisses at each other’s mouths, catching jaw or cheek or nose as often as not. Jon feels drowned in arousal, every sense heightened, his head swimming in a way he’s never experienced before. He struggles to maintain the rhythm of his own hand as his excitement builds, his movements growing clumsy, moaning into Martin’s mouth. 

“Martin - ” he gasps, desperate and wanting, “Martin - what do you want?”

He definitely doesn’t intend to compel an answer, but in the heat of the moment he’s afraid that maybe a little of it slips into his tone, because Martin goes bright crimson and groans:

“I want to fuck you - between your thighs - they’re so gorgeous, god - ”

A hot spike of arousal goes through Jon and he feels his face heating even more than it already has. He’s not sure anyone’s ever referred to any part of his body as _gorgeous_ before. Certainly not with such passion. He licks his lips.

“Yes,” he says, “Yes. But you’ll - you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

Martin’s hand stills on Jon’s dick, and he is looking at him wild eyed and panting. 

“God, Jon,” he says, “Are you sure? I - this is supposed to be about you.”

"I want _you_ ,” Jon tells him. “I want you every way I can have you. I - _yes_ , Martin.”

“Okay,” says Martin. He raises a hand to push Jon’s hair back from his face and kisses him, deeply. “Turn around, then,” he says. Jon does, his erection bobbing uncomfortably between his legs, aroused almost to the point of over-stimulation, pre-ejaculcate leaking from the tip. Even the way his dick brushes briefly against the sheets as he settles onto his side is almost too much. 

He feels Martin’s warm weight up against his back, Martin’s erection pressing against his thigh. Jon shivers. He wants this, wants Martin, but he has to admit he’s a little nervous. This is all new. Maybe Martin senses it, because he just stays where he is and starts running his hands over Jon’s back, fingers brushing the faded white scars from the Hive, across his ribs and over his hip. Martin touches him like something precious, and he nudges his nose up against Jon’s neck, kissing his shoulders and the knobs of his spine. Jon gradually melts against him, and pushes back against his solid heat. Martin’s hand slips down over one buttock, cupping and squeezing it gently, and then over the backs of Jon’s thighs, caressing them with light touches.

“All right?” Martin asks eventually, and when Jon hums an acknowledgment he pushes forward, slipping his dick between Jon’s legs. It’s hot, and silky smooth against Jon’s skin, and Martin sighs as he presses his body flush against Jon’s.

“Keep your legs together, if you can,” he murmurs in Jon’s ear, then kisses the soft skin just behind it so Jon gasps. “And - tell me if you want to stop. At any point.”

“Yes, yes,” Jon breathes, and squeezes his thighs together as hard as he can, cupping his balls and pulling them forward out of the way. He can feel Martin’s dick trapped between his thighs, hard and quivering, can feel the hot, tight space he’s made for it, and there is something deeply exciting about that. 

Martin's arm comes around Jon to pull them even closer together, careful of Jon’s bandaged arm. He begins to fuck carefully into the seam between Jon’s thighs, his hips rolling slowly against Jon's. His hand moves down from Jon’s chest to his groin, cups his sensitive balls and kneads them gently before sliding up to take Jon's dick in a firm grip. Jon whimpers, because he is painfully aroused and he has never waited this long to orgasm in his life. Tingling heat unfurls through his groin and belly in waves, focusing down through his dick with throbbing intensity, and he needs to come so badly.

Martin’s movements grow less controlled, more insistent, tugging at Jon’s aching dick in rhythm with his own thrusts. Jon abandons himself to the sensation, clamping his thighs together around Martin’s dick, which is sliding back and forth more easily now, slick with Martin’s pre-ejaculate and his own sweat. He rocks into Martin’s movements and Martin's firm hand as his whole body trembles and yearns towards release. Martin is moaning sweetly in his ear, his heart racing against Jon’s back, and then his hips stutter and he groans Jon’s name as warm heat floods between Jon’s thighs, and that’s it, Jon is coming with a low, desperate whine, his entire body throbbing with pleasure as his dick jerks and pulses in Martin’s hand.

They lie there for a while, just breathing, Martin pets a hand soothingly over Jon’s chest and belly, little residual trails of sensation. Jon feels overwhelmed and wrecked, but not, he thinks, in a bad way. Martin’s body pressed against his is warm and solid, his softening dick still nestled between Jon’s thighs. 

“How are you?” Martin asks eventually, his voice soft. 

“I’m...good,” says Jon, still feeling a little stunned. “That was - that was sort of amazing.”

“That’s...probably the most glowing report I’ve ever had,” Martin laughs warmly against his shoulder. “It - definitely was, though. You’re amazing.”

Jon turns over in Martin’s arms, wincing a little as he twists onto his injured arm, and kisses him gently. 

“How about a shower?” 

Jon doesn’t sleep much that night, despite being desperately tired, his mind racing with too many plans and fears to relax. He tries for almost two hours, but eventually gets up and sits in an armchair with his notes, turning on a lamp so he can read. Instead, he finds his attention drifting to Martin, who is sleeping restlessly, huffing with unconscious annoyance at the lamplight, frowning and pushing his face into the pillow to block it out. There is something deeply intimate about watching someone sleep, seeing them at their most vulnerable. It isn’t something Jon ever had occasion to do, in the past. Not something he ever imagined wanting to do, but watching Martin sleep makes him feel content and peaceful.   

In the middle of the night, too exhausted to be anything but honest with himself, he can admit that he’s never been so drawn to another person in his life. Has never felt so intense a connection. It unnerves him, because he can’t help but think of the Web that has insinuated itself into both their lives, coincidentally or otherwise. The Web that binds and controls - is that what has bound them? Is it the Web that makes Martin want to follow him into horrible danger, that makes Jon’s heart ache at the thought of being without him? Did the Spider’s threads return Martin to the Archives the day Jon tried to leave alone? 

Jon knows he should be wary, should be looking for subtle machinations, but he can’t make himself pull away. Can’t make himself conceive that anything Martin could do could ever harm him, regardless of what first drew them to each other. If it is the Web, that doesn’t make what he feels less real to him. _What he feels…_ He mouths the words silently, testing them out to see how they sit on his tongue. It sends a low thrill through him, pulse jumping at his own daring, and he laughs helplessly under his breath. 

It still feels wrong, and selfish, to let Martin come with him. But Martin was right: if Elias succeeds, there’s no keeping anyone safe. Martin has chosen to put himself at risk for the good of the world, and who is Jon to deny that? 


	7. Longyearbyen; Ny-Ålesund; Oslo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am determined to get this story finished before too many of the ideas I have get jossed to hell. Judging by the current trajectory in canon, that's probably about three weeks from now, so let's see how we do!

They fly to Longyearbyen the following day. It is the last flight to the Svalbard archipelago for three days, so even if Adelard Dekker is tracking them, they’ve bought themselves some breathing room. Unless he finds some other way to cross a thousand kilometers of Arctic Ocean in the intervening time, in which case they’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. 

Martin is chipper at the airport, probably due to the fact that he managed to get a full night’s sleep. Jon is feeling rather less energetic, although at least his arm hurts less today. Martin cleaned and bandaged it again before they left the hotel this morning, and commented on how quickly it was healing. 

“Maybe it’s part of my, uh, compensation package from the Beholding,” Jon had said, trying to sound lighthearted. Martin had snorted. 

“A company car would’ve been better,” he’d teased. Jon smiles to himself at the memory of Martin’s hands lingering a little as he gently wound the new bandage around the arm. 

It’s not that anything has changed since last night, except that in a way it really has. And not because of the sex, though that was very...well, yes. Very. It was the words they exchanged that crystallized the truth for him with perfect clarity. Jon’s spent his entire life being self-sufficient and self-contained. It’s just always felt safer. Relying on someone, trusting someone with himself, is not something that comes easily to him. But it is a conscious decision he’s making, because Martin deserves that from him. And because Jon wants to give everything he can.

The fact is, Jon is all in on Martin Blackwood, in a way he he has never experienced before. It is sort of frightening, but it also makes him feel like he can do anything, despite all the odds stacked against them. As long as he has Martin by his side.

Martin, who has somehow procured a Svalbard travel guide, and is now reading it voraciously, offering the occasional snippet out loud. 

“It says here that if we travel out of town, we need to take a gun to protect against polar bears,” he says. “Apparently it’s the law. It would be pretty amazing to see one!”

“I’d rather not,” says Jon, “Considering they felt the need to make a law about defending yourself against them.”

“I suppose,” Martin says, “But still, _polar bears_ , in _Svalbard!_ I was a bit obsessed with ‘His Dark Materials’ as a kid, so that’s...sort of a dream for me.”

It’s one of the few book series Jon actually managed to maintain interest through when he was a child, so he can understand. He rather likes the idea that he and Martin have that in common.

“I was especially obsessed with the armored bears,” Martin continues. “I was always asking about visiting Svalbard, to see where they came from. I remember one time we went to the zoo, my mum had to physically drag me away from the polar bear enclosure.”

That reminds Jon of something that he really should have thought of long ago, and he clears his throat guiltily. 

“How, uh, how is your mother?” he asks. “Have you been in contact with her at all?

“Oh,” Martin says, far too brightly. “She, umm, she passed away, actually. About eight months ago?”

“Oh, god, Martin I’m so sorry - I didn’t know - ” 

“It’s fine,” says Martin. “I didn’t tell anyone in the office. With everything going on, I didn’t think - well, you know. More important things.”

Jon feels all of three inches tall right now. He remembers, a while back, Martin had asked for a week off very suddenly for personal reasons. He’d said yes, of course, but he’d never asked, had just considered it none of his business. And of course Martin hadn’t said anything, because he never wants to bother anyone with his pain. He wouldn’t let you know he was bleeding, unless it was warning you to watch you don’t get blood on your shoes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, for all that it means at this point. “I know your relationship was - difficult, but - ”

“It’s okay,” Martin says, “Honestly, I’m okay.” His face tells a different story, and Jon wasn’t there for him when it happened, but at least he can be now. He leans over in his uncomfortable airport chair and wraps one arm around Martin’s shoulders, tugging Martin towards him. Martin goes without protest, leans against him and turns his face into Jon’s shoulder. Jon cups his other hand to the back of Martin’s head, running a hand gently over his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Martin exhales long and low against his neck.

“Thanks, Jon,” he says in a small voice. Jon keeps holding him for a while longer, then he goes to get styrofoam cups of tea from a nearby kiosk, giving Martin a few minutes. When he gets back, he hands a cup to Martin and sits down beside him.

“Lee Scoresby was my favorite character,” says Jon. “I...cried, when he let himself dissolve into atoms.” 

“He was pretty cool,” Martin agrees. 

Svalbard is endless rugged vistas and barren hills, crowned with ice even in the summer. There is an intense, bleak beauty to the landscape, the wide clear sky above, the ocean encroaching from all sides, extending long fingers greedily inland. It is a vast, lonely place, and Jon shivers a little as he looks to the north, across the fjord. They are perhaps a hundred kilometers from their destination.

By contrast, the small town of Longyearbyen is cluttered with brightly painted buildings, as if in protest against the stark scenery. Tourism is big business, it seems, and various businesses advertise day trips by snowmobile, boat tours, or even longer cruises around the archipelago. There are even daily boat trips to Ny-Ålesund, which Martin discovered before they left Oslo, and which had been a surprise to Jon, to say the least. From its cryptic presence in various statements, he had somehow expected it to be a secretive, inaccessible place. Instead the tour company website advertises that visitors can explore the town, purchase souvenirs, and even send postcards from the northernmost post office in the world.

It shouldn’t be so surprising, he supposes. The Fears conceal themselves in plain sight all too often, and perhaps there is some sinister motive to inviting people in. Jon isn’t going to let his guard down in that place, in any case. He has to admit it does make things easier, though. He had been anticipating a gruelling overland expedition to reach the settlement, not just booking a day trip with a few clicks.  

They have the rest of the day to spend in Longyearbyen, and the niggling need is starting in the back of Jon’s head, now that they’ve finally stopped moving. It’s been four days since his last statement. He raises the topic hesitantly, because this isn’t something he _likes_ doing. Martin, concerned as always, insists they go out immediately and try to find one. There’s bound to be _someone_ in town, and anyway they could both do with some fresh air, and they’ll need to find someplace to eat dinner later.

Jon can’t describe how comforted he is by Martin’s easy acceptance. They walk around the town, poking through shops like normal tourists, until finally in an outdoor supply store he _notices_ one of the employees stacking shelves. He leaves Martin looking wide eyed at the racks of rifles and flare guns (which just...no) and goes to take a statement from the man, whose terrifying experience of becoming lost at sea - and almost dying - hadn’t discouraged his interest in open ocean kayaking, and had actually led to him taking up scuba diving.

Jon has long been aware that people’s reactions to encountering Fear is a broad spectrum. Compare the woman they met in St. Petersburg, hiding from the Eye for twenty years, with this man, striking out into the heart of the Vast that had almost swallowed him. Or Martin, who is fond of spiders to this day despite (or maybe because of) his childhood experience, in comparison with Carlos Vittery, whose fear had consumed him utterly. Or even Jon himself, who has what he considers an appropriately moderate caution around the creatures, without being crippled by fear.

He’s read about this in Aloys Fischer’s thesis. How we not only redefine the primal Fears based on our experiences, but how exposure to Fear may have an inoculating effect in some cases. Fischer had theorized that some minds are drawn to the Fears - and Jon has seen plenty of examples of that - while others could approach them as a challenge to be overcome. There is something optimistic in this man’s statement, how his experience with Fear had only encouraged him to _face_ that fear over and over again. How he had not allowed fear to destroy him or to control him, had found his own way to deal with it. Jon feels oddly buoyed as he thanks the man for his statement. The man just blinks with bemusement, then excuses himself vaguely and goes back to work.

Martin is waiting at the door for him. Luckily he hasn’t purchased any firearms, just a new Swiss army knife to replace the one he had to leave back in London.

“That really is creepy,” he tells Jon cheerfully. “The way they just _talk_ to you.”

“Sorry,” says Jon, because he agrees, it is creepy. He doesn’t like that he has to do it, how invasive it is. Doesn’t like the satisfying rush he feels as he absorbs another person’s experience against their will. Martin nudges him playfully with an elbow.

“I was just having a go at you,” he says, “It’s fine, really. You’re doing what you need to do, and it’s not like you’re hurting anyone.”

That thought lodges itself unpleasantly in Jon’s head as he follows Martin down the street. He _isn’t_ hurting anyone, is he? The dreams he experiences from the statements are horrifying, and of course tied to the Watcher's Crown, but they’re just dreams. And it’s just him. Isn’t it? He can’t ask Martin, since his statements have never appeared in Jon’s dreams. But surely Georgie would have said something, if his taking her statement had...affected her in any way? Wouldn’t she?

The next morning they join the group of tourists bound for Ny-Ålesund. The tour guide talks cheerfully as they make their way up along with coastline, pointing out glacial features and local wildlife, a pod of white whales rolling and huffing in the distance, guillemots and skuas gliding overhead. At one point they pass by a polar bear on the shore, two half grown cubs trailing behind her. Martin looks like he might pass out from delight, clutching at Jon’s arm as if he can hardly believe what he’s seeing, and Jon can’t help smiling. Despite the fact that they are headed into an unknown and dangerous situation, Martin is an expert at taking joy where he finds it.

It takes several hours to reach the dock at Ny-Ålesund, a glacial valley that sweeps up towards the icy hills encircling it. The town itself is sparse but sprawling, buildings scattered almost at random alongside wide dirt roads. A mix of brightly painted houses and blocky, industrial-looking buildings are sited with seemingly no pattern, no residential or commercial districts set out. The tour guide starts leading the way into the town center, explaining the history of the settlement as she goes, starting with the first expedition of the Open Bay Company to Kongsfjorden Bay.

Jon trails along at the rear with Martin, looking around cautiously. This place is as bleakly beautiful as the rest of Svalbard, but something here _feels_ wrong. Martin is feeling it too, if the nervousness in his eyes is anything to go by. Despite the enclosing hills, the landscape seems unnervingly...open. The sky seems to reach all the way down to the ground, which of course it does, but in an intensely aggressive way, bright blue and utterly cloudless. Almost blinding. The ocean spreading out behind them seems to go on forever, the horizon far further away than it should be, and still that vast cavern of sky overhead, swooping down like some great beast at hunt.

Jon is starting to think that maybe everyone has been wrong about this place. Maybe it is not the Dark but the Vast that owns Ny-Ålesund, all its desolate expanses beneath endless day or endless night. He is becoming more and more sure of it by the minute, as the sun glares down from that bleak, blue sky. Except then he sees the shadows, crawling beneath the eaves and along the walls, writhing in the wake of the tour party and slashed across the faces of the glacial hills. Shadows thrown into even greater relief by the screaming brilliance of the sky above. Shadows gathering in thick, dark mass wherever the light is not, squirming and alive with malevolence.

“Stay in the light,” Jon says to Martin, thinking of Adelard Dekker’s affliction. Martin nods, his expression not a little unnerved. It seems the rest of their group don’t notice a thing, and as they walk into the lee of a large stone building to look at a commemorative bust of some famous explorer, Jon feels sick to see the shadows roiling around them, licking at ankles and coiling around wrists, sweeping over faces that are animated and happy. None of them seem to notice, continuing to snap pictures and chatter.

“Should we - do something?” Martin asks, a frantic, uncertain edge in his voice.

“I, uh, I don’t know,” says Jon, because what can they possibly do? He sees a few other people - residents, presumably - who are walking through the wriggling darkness without any apparent concerns. Is it affecting them at all? He is still frozen with indecision when a door opens in a building nearby and a woman walks out. She crosses the small square towards where Jon and Martin are standing, carefully picking her way around the thickest clusters of shadow. She is wearing a parka and a bland smile.

“Archivist,” she says, inclining her head. “Maybe we should speak inside?”

Jon can feel distance rolling off her in waves, like she’s simultaneously standing directly in front of him and very far away. Vertigo sweeps over him briefly, then recedes. He nods tightly, refusing to show any concern. This type of monster can sense weakness as easily as fear, and leaps on it just as quickly.

“I’m Harriet Fairchild,” the woman calls back over her shoulder as she leads them inside the building. If anyone from the tour group notices them leaving, they don’t say anything. They follow Harriet Fairchild through a maze of corridors and stairwells, all gray brick and tiled floors. They pass doors through which Jon spies research labs and offices and wet rooms full of tanks, staff in shirtsleeves and hazmat suits and chest waders. There is a faint, low humming beneath their feet, felt more than heard, like something huge and mechanical vibrating in the earth below them.

Finally Fairchild opens the door to an office that has her name on the door. Another woman is already inside, younger, wearing a business suit. She stands as they come in.

“Sophia Raynor,” she says, extending a manicured hand. Jon considers for a moment, then takes the hand. She smiles, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s passed a test or fallen into a trap. Martin shakes her hand as well, looking nervous, and Fairchild sits behind her desk, hanging the parka on the back of her chair. She’s dressed more like she’s going fishing than working in an office.

“Raynor,” Jon says, “I - didn’t realize there were more of you.”

Sophia Raynor gives a jingling laugh, glancing at Fairchild.

“Oh, Uncle Max is the only one who makes waves,” she says, “With that ridiculous church of his. The rest of our family aren’t like that. We prefer to keep our business to ourselves.”

“Uncle Max?” Jon says disbelievingly. 

“A little family joke,” says Raynor. “He is a relative, of some sort, but nobody can recall anymore how or when from. So, Uncle Max. He’s a bit of an embarrassment, more than anything.” 

“Isn’t he, uh, dead?” Martin chimes in. “The...police killed him?”

“Difficult to say,” the woman replies, tilting her head to one side. “And mostly, it’s best not to ask about these things.”

“So, Archivist,” Harriet Fairchild says, “Why don’t you explain what brings you to Ny-Ålesund. And why I received a request from Elias Bouchard for a private landing in our airfield.”

“Elias?” Jon exclaims, startled.

“I said no, of course,” Fairchild continues. “We want nothing to do with Beholding’s plans, one way or the other. If you and Elias are in some sort of power struggle, it’s none of our concern.”

“A power struggle?” Jon can’t help laughing. “I wish it was something so petty. Elias is trying to complete the Watcher’s Crown ritual. Soon. And we are trying to stop it.”

“We assumed he was moving in that direction,” says Fairchild. “But still, none of our concern.”

“None of your - you _know_ what the ritual will do!” Jon can’t understand their complacency. “The world remade in the image of the Eye? That isn’t good for the Vast _or_ the Dark.”

Harriet Fairchild gives a wide smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Always so superior, Beholding,” she says. “As if the ability to _see_ was the most important thing in the world. But there are depths and voids so immense that the Eye can never penetrate them.”

“Dark depths,” Raynor adds, sounding gleeful. “Black voids to blind the Eye. Space, and _beyond_ space. This world is small, Archivist, there are other - ”

“Sophia!” Fairchild’s voice cracks like a whip, and Raynor falls silent, looking affronted. 

“We have no interest in what Elias is doing,” Fairchild continues smoothly. “And we have no interest in antagonizing him either. If you’re looking for help, you won’t find it here.”

“I see,” says Jon, and Raynor smirks. 

“For now,” she says. There are shadows pooling around her feet, lapping around her like loyal pets, or wavelets on the shore of some vast ocean. Beneath him, Jon can feel the low thrumming of whatever they have below, in the foundations of the building. He’s no longer so sure that it is mechanical in nature.

“I, uh, suppose we’d better be going then,” he says, jerking his head towards the door. Martin makes for the door while Jon keeps his eye on the two women. Sophia Raynor is draped in darkness, now, and vertigo sweeps over him again as Harriet Fairchild gets to her feet.

“Beholding can do what it wants,” Fairchild tells him, imperious. “Just keep it away from us. And tell Elias Bouchard the same when you see him.”

“Right,” says Jon, his head spinning. He feels rather like a hooked fish that’s just been tossed back into the water. He backs toward the door Martin’s holding open, and grasps the frame for balance as he walks through.

“Do come and visit again, Archivist,” Raynor calls to him. “Maybe next time we’ll give you the full tour!”

They make their way back down through the maze of corridors. Shadows flicker in the corners of Jon’s eyes, and he can’t quite shake off the sick dizziness. Beside him, Martin looks pale, his eyes darting around as if he is seeing the same thing. The underground humming is juddering up through Jon, rattling his bones and setting his teeth on edge, feeling like it is eroding the very molecular bonds holding him together. He shoulders his way through it, and finally they reach the front door and make their questionable escape into the brilliant, shadowed expanse of Ny-Ålesund. 

They return to the dock and wait for the tour group, not wanting to test their luck any further on the town’s streets. They don’t talk while they wait, just sit huddled together on a wall, watchful. Jon is still a little shaken, and the solid warmth of Martin’s shoulder against his is immensely comforting. Grounding, when he otherwise feels he might fall into the sky at any moment. The tourists return eventually, laden with souvenirs and cameras, shedding tatters of darkness like dead skin as they squint into the blinding blue. 

Jon doesn’t know what Ny-Ålesund has done to these people, if it’s fed on them, infected them, or something else entirely. He doesn’t know what Harriet Fairchild and Sophia Raynor are doing here, what they have trapped or growing beneath the earth. What Raynor was starting to say in her gloating voice, _there are other_ , before Fairchild stopped her. He could have asked, could have compelled the answer from one or other of them. And then what, in the center of their power, with the ground shuddering alive beneath his feet? It’s...something else to worry about, but only if they manage to stop the Watcher’s Crown first. 

He sighs. The tour guide is talking to Martin, asking what happened to the two of them.

“Oh, my boyfriend wasn’t feeling well,” Martin explains. “Dizzy spells, you know? He thought he’d be better off sitting it out.”

“Honestly Martin,” Jon says, playing along. “I could have stayed by myself. No need for both of us to miss out.”

The tour guide makes some sympathetic noises, says she’ll give them a half price discount if they want to do the tour again. Tells Jon what a good boyfriend he has.

“I know,” says Jon, and takes Martin’s hand in his. Martin’s face flushes with embarrassment, but his smile is pleased.

They spend two more days in Longyearbyen before the next flight back to the mainland. It is a an anxious peace, knowing that they are remote enough to be safe right now, but not knowing what awaits when they return. Elias tried to land a flight in Ny-Ålesund - his hunters? Or was he coming personally? It can’t have been coincidence, in any case. They’ll need to be cautious. They spend the time making plans. The Vast and Dark are not an option, it seems, but there are others. Jude Perry is still in London - perhaps the Lightless Flame can be tempted to torch the Institute. Gertrude’s notes contain reference to a stronghold of the Buried in France, near to where Mont Granier killed a thousand people in a landslide in the thirteenth century. Jon has a contact with an East Asian arms dealer who is undoubtedly the most approachable manifestation of the Slaughter alive today. They aren’t beaten yet.

They also manage to make time for...other things. Jon would never have imagined he could have so much appetite for sex, but his physical preoccupation with Martin seems to only be growing, and Martin returns his fascination in equal measure. It is all rather exhilarating, and a welcome distraction from the uncertainty lying ahead of them. 

They land in Oslo on a Monday afternoon. Jon is nervous and watchful as they disembark the plane, glancing around for anyone who might be taking a particular interest in them. The airport is bustling with travelers, difficult to survey, but at least that will also hold true for anyone looking for them. 

It is as they are descending the escalator, heading for the train into Oslo city, that Jon spots the hunter. She is walking down the stairs alongside the escalator, keeping pace with them, her sharp, hungry face telling him all he needs to know. 

“Martin!” Jon says urgently, eyes locked on her. Martin follows his gaze and goes rigid as he spots the woman. Jon grabs his shoulder, glancing around. The escalator is packed with people, no way to get back up. Martin is fishing in his jacket, pulls out a rubber duck and clutches it in his hand, his jaw set firmly. From the momentary faintness that washes over him, Jon recognizes the Liar’s Knife, focuses and sees the blade in Martin’s hand for a moment.

The hunter is waiting when they get to the bottom of the escalator. She glances at the item in Martin’s hand, frowning in confusion, and then twitches open her coat to reveal the holstered gun nestled in her armpit.

“Don’t try to be brave,” she says. “Elias only wants the Archivist. He didn’t say anything about extras.”

Martin doesn’t flinch, still brandishing the duck-shaped object. Jon shakes his head. He believes she’s fully capable of what she threatens, and they can't risk it.

“Don't, Martin,” he says. Martin seems about to protest, but then tucks the duck back into his jacket. The hunter smiles coldly, looking very pleased with herself.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she says. “We are all going to leave together to the street, and then we are going to meet some friends of mine, and we are going to head back to London. If either of you try anything, I’ll kill _you_.” She nods at Martin.

“Why didn’t Elias come himself, if he wants me so badly?” Jon asks, aiming for bluster but probably not hitting the mark. The hunter grins toothily.

“Because I’m better at hunting,” she says, and gestures to them both to walk ahead of her. Jon catches Martin’s eye as they head towards the glass doors, gives him a small, tight smile that tries to communicate _we’ll be okay_ , even though he doesn’t believe it himself. His mind is racing, trying to think of some way out of this. She’s seen the Liar’s Knife, but it doesn’t seem she’s actually _seen_ it, since she didn’t make Martin discard it. They might be able to get the drop on her before they meet her _friends_ , whoever they are. There are two of them to her one, after all.

“I know you’re both thinking very hard right now,” the woman says matter of factly. “You’re going to come up with a plan, and because you’re not thinking clearly, it will be a bad plan. And then I will have to kill this guy, and probably a number of other people, and at the end of it the Archivist will still be coming with me. Do you want all that blood on your hands?”

Jon doesn’t say anything, but she’s right, they need to be patient. It’s a long way to London. They’ll have time to think of _something_. 

They walk out through the glass doors to the front of the airport building, taxis lined up along the curb, cars and busses rolling past. Masses of people flow around them, hurried and preoccupied. The woman waves a hand to their left, directing them to walk that way. Jon turns, tight with tension, and then all at once the crowd parts ahead of them, people moving aside to form a path without even seeming to realize it, and Jon is looking at Adelard Dekker. Dekker, who is heading purposefully towards them through the space he’s somehow created, walking under the shadow of the airport building with oily blackness crawling over his skin. He is wearing a grim expression and holding a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands.

“Oh hell,” mutters Jon, and spins on his heel, turning to the woman behind him.  “Elias wants me alive, right?” 

“He does,” she sneers, “But he didn’t say anything about what condition - ”

“ _That_ man is trying to kill me,” Jon snaps, interrupting whatever threat she was about to make, nodding curtly towards Dekker. The hunter blinks, startled, then looks past him at Dekker. Her expression goes blank for an instant, and then settles into something intent and vicious, like an feral animal scenting a threat. Like she senses something kindred in Dekker, and knows what his presence means. She looks back at Jon, vacillates for a second, then makes a low noise in the back of her throat that is almost a whine.

“I’ll find you again,” she snarls through clenched teeth, then pushes past him and stalks towards Dekker, reaching inside her coat. 

Jon doesn’t wait to see how Dekker responds, just grabs Martin’s arm and runs. A scream of pain or anger cuts through the air behind them, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even glance back, just sprints for the front of the taxi queue and jumps into the first car, ignoring the protests of the man who had been about to open the door.

“Hey,” the taxi driver says in heavily accented English, “You can’t do that, you know!”

“It’s an emergency,” Jon tells him in Norwegian, glancing at the photo pinned to his dashboard, a smiling family portrait. “My wife’s having a baby - I need to get to the hospital!”

The man looks back over his shoulder at Jon’s terrified face, and then smiles knowingly.

“First kid, eh?” he says sympathetically, and pulls away from the curb, ignoring the disgruntled traveler still knocking on his window. 

“What was that?” Martin murmurs under his breath. Jon gives him a significant look.

“My wife’s having a baby,” he mutters. “I’ll tell you later.”

Jon glances over his shoulder as they merge into the traffic leaving the airport. Among the crowds of people he thinks he catches a glimpse of an anomalous gap, unoccupied but for one figure standing and one curled on the ground. In the glare from the sunlight, he can’t make out which is which.  


	8. Rome; Innsbruck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the current bleakness of season four, I wish I was writing more positive stuff, but this is the story I have. Please do note the tags and warnings.

The next few weeks are simultaneously the most frustrating and nerve-wracking of Jon’s life. They stay on the move, while Jon attempts to make contact with every monster of both his and Gertrude’s acquaintance that may not immediately try to kill them. It seems Elias’ patience has run out as well, and the hunters have redoubled their efforts. Despite their best efforts, they have several close calls, and Jon wishes they had someone on their side skilled at stealth. But the only hunter he knows is Julia Montauk, and she is currently in prison for Trevor Herbert’s murder. Jon doesn’t know whether Julia lost herself, or whether Trevor gave her no choice, but in the end it makes no difference to their situation.

They almost die at Mont Granier when whatever aspect of the Buried remains there decides it doesn’t want any visitors and tries to drop a rockslide on them. In Sofia, an avatar of the Flesh that Gertrude had considered _dangerous but reasonable_ turns out to have become either more dangerous or less reasonable over the years, and tries to incorporate them into its own pulsating, meaty mass. It devours one of the hunters that bursts in on the scene, and they manage to shake the others with great difficulty and extremely unsafe driving on Martin’s part. 

Jon tries several times to reach his Slaughter contact in Seoul. After a number of confusing conversations he finally learns that Ms. Sohn is dead, killed during a transaction gone wrong, and her organization has all but dissolved as her lieutenants have butchered each other in a mindless scramble for power. He reaches out to a few individuals associated with the Dark, Vast, and Lonely, but without much hope. As he expected, none of them will go against the power consolidated by the Raynors, Fairchilds, and Lukases. 

Jon knows he’s at the end of his options when he finally considers contacting Jude Perry. He and Martin don’t argue about it, exactly. But Martin’s read about Jude Perry, though he’s never met her, and he asks several choice questions how Jon can possibly request her help. 

“We do need to be careful how we approach her,” Jon agrees. “Jude isn’t exactly the helpful sort. We have to convince her it’s in her best interests.”

“About that,” says Martin. “Her best interests to do _what_ , exactly? Because I’m pretty sure you tried burning down the Archives before and it didn’t take.”

“That...I wasn’t actually trying to burn it down at the time,” Jon says, pained. “It was a distraction. I wasn’t thinking about the long term, just about getting out of there without Elias stopping me.”

“But now you want to _actually_ burn the Institute?”

“It’s - drastic, I know, but it’s the core of Elias’ power. If we can take that power away from him, it will leave him vulnerable. It might actually give us a chance.”

“And what about all the people working there? What about Basira and Melanie?”

“I’ll get a message to them through Georgie,” says Jon. “Tell them to stay away from the Institute for a few days. As for everyone else...Jude and her people should be focused on the Archives, it gives everyone else a chance to escape.”

Martin sighs. He looks deeply unsettled by this, and Jon understands. He feels it too.

“Do you really think we can trust her?” Martin asks.

“Not even a little bit,” Jon laughs. “But we don’t have much choice. We’re out of alternatives. We just have to hope she finds the idea of destroying the Institute appealing.”

Jude insists on meeting in person, and as London isn’t an option she decides on Rome. _I like places that have already burned_ , she tells Jon over the phone, cruel and amused. They find her sitting outside a café in the Piazza Trilussa, drinking hot, black coffee with as much skin as possible bared to the blazing noon sun. She squints at their approach.

“You brought back-up?” she says, amused. “How cute.”

Jon doesn’t rise to the bait, just takes the seat adjacent to Jude, leaving Martin to sit across the table from her, at least marginally further away. 

“So, Archivist, I heard you ran away from home,” Jude drawls. “I had to see it to believe it. Had a fight with the boss?”

“More of a philosophical difference,” says Jon. “He wants to recreate the world in the image of the Beholding, and I quite like it the way it is.”

“Hmm, it does sound pretty boring, having the Eye in charge of everything. So what are you planning to do about it?”

“Well I was hoping you could help,” says Jon. No point in being coy about it. Jude laughs unpleasantly.

“You want my help?” she says gleefully. “I thought you Beholding types were the intellectual sort, above all that wanton destruction stuff. Surely you’re not stooping to my level?”

“I am...admitting my limitations,” Jon says. “You don’t want the world to fall to Beholding any more than I do, so how about we put our differences aside and work together?”

“What are you suggesting?” Jude asks, looking skeptical. 

“We destroy the Institute. It’s at the center of Elias’ power. Destroy it, and I can stop him.” Jon tries to sound as if that is a fact he is very confident in.

“You think we’ve never tried? The Institute is protected - we’ve never been able to get inside, and hot as the Lightless Flame burns, it cannot ignite that building from outside.”

“I can get you in,” says Jon. “There are tunnels, under the Archives. I can provide you a map.”

“And then we burn the entire thing,” Jude says, her eyes lighting up. Jon nods.

“You need to do it at night, though,” he says. “If you go in the daytime, Elias will be there.”

“Then I’ll burn him too,” Jude sneers. “You think I’m afraid of Elias?”

“You should be,” says Jon, still doing his best to sound extremely confident. “In his Institute, so close to achieving his goals? He _will_ stop you, and the entire plan will go out the window. I promise you, Elias will die, but it needs to be _after_ we destroy the Institute. What’s killing one man, compared to destroying the center of the Beholding’s power?”

Jude considers it for a few moments, and then smiles, wide and nasty. 

“All right,” she says, “We’ll do it your way. If you’ll shake on it.”

Later on, Martin bandages the burn loosely, his forehead creased with concern.

“Honestly,” he says, “I know I keep saying this, but you really should go to a hospital for this one.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon grits through clenched teeth. “I heal fast, you know that. And it’s not nearly as bad as the last time - I think maybe she’s warming up to me, as it were.”

“You knew she was going to do that, didn’t you?”

“It’s sort of her thing,” says Jon. “It’s worth it, if it convinces her to stick to the plan.”

“Do you think she will?”

“She might, especially since she got to burn me for it. But she’s unpredictable. It’s a risk. I’ll still ask Georgie to make sure Melanie and Basira stay away for a few days, just in case.”

“That was all a lie, then, about Elias? Just to get her to go in at night.”

“Sort of. I mean, I don’t entirely know what Elias is capable of, but he has a lot of power in the Institute, and Dekker said he was well protected. It’s definitely safer if they go when he’s not there. And, well, I didn’t want to risk her _actually_ killing him. We still don’t know, about what he said before, about - you, and the others. We can’t kill him until we know it’s safe.”

“We kill him as soon as we get the chance,” Martin insists firmly. “Whatever happens, happens. If it’s three of us to save the world, I’m sure Basira and Melanie would both agree it’s worthwhile.”

Jon feels a swell of pride at Martin’s fierce resolve, and a simultaneous pang of fear at the thought of losing him. They’ve spoken about it, of course. Quietly, late at night, holding each other, they’ve acknowledged that either or both of them might not make it out alive. That they are both willing to do what needs to be done, regardless. These last few weeks, the risks they’ve been taking, they could have died any time. Still, Jon can’t quite bring himself to consider the possibility of having to live without Martin. He pushes the fear away; it’s not going to happen. 

“As soon as we hear from Jude,” he says, “We head to London. And then we’ll deal with Elias, one way or another.”

It doesn’t feel safe staying in Rome, when Jude can place them there, so they take a train across the Austrian border. Two nights later is the planned incursion, and they wait in a hotel room in Innsbruck, waiting for Jude’s promised contact. Jon doesn’t know if he’ll feel the destruction of the Archives. He’s suffered before, from destroying knowledge himself, but he’s not sure if another person burning the Archives will affect him. Elias is the heart of the Institute, as he is so fond of reminding everyone, and its destruction should harm him deeply. But these days, Jon thinks he’s tied closer to the Beholding itself than to any particular site of its power. He is the Archivist, and he has power in any place of knowledge. He’s not certain he even needs the Magnus Institute anymore. 

Still, he mentally braces himself for the potential of pain. He sits on the hotel bed pretending to study some of Gertrude’s notes, but actually just worrying at the possibilities in his head like a dog with a bone. A cheap mobile phone sits on the bedside cabinet. Jude is the only person he’s given its number, and Jon forces himself not to keep glancing at it. Martin sits beside him so their shoulders touch, chewing the end of a pen and frowning, occasionally writing something in the exercise book he has balanced on his knees. From his furious concentration, Jon can tell he’s writing poetry, but he knows better than to try to read it without permission. 

Finally at around one in the morning, the mobile phone rings. Jon jumps at the sudden sound in the silence, and jabs the answer button, lifting it to his ear.

“Hello?” he says as it connects, and then there is a cacophony of noise from the other end.

“Bastard!” Jude’s voice comes through, tinny but enraged. Jon can barely hear her over the background noise.

“What’s going on?” Jon plugs his other ear to try and hear better. There are voices shouting, and a roaring whoosh of flame, and a couple of sharp reports that might just be gunshots. 

“The Institute is empty!” Jude shouts down the phone at him. “Every damn book and piece of paper is gone - it’s just bare shelves and empty filing cabinets! Elias cleared the whole place out, and it’s full of fucking _hunters_ shooting at us!” 

Jon feels the blood draining from his face.

“That’s not - how is that possible?”

“I don’t fucking know, Sims!” Jude screams. More gunshots go off behind her. “But I am going to kill them all, and then I am going to kill whoever was involved in this set up. So unless you want to be on that list, you’d better tell me where I can find Elias!”

“I don’t know,” Jon scrambles for a response. “He, ah, he has a house in Kensington - ”

There is another fiery roar so loud Jon can almost feel the heat over the phone, and three rapid shots, then a shriek of static and the line goes dead. Jon stares at the phone in his hand for several long moments, trying to process what he’s just heard. Martin shifts beside him, impatient and nervy.

“What’s going on?” he says. “That sounded...loud.”

“There were hunters, waiting for them,” Jon tells him. “And the Institute’s been cleared out. Everything’s gone.”

“Elias knew this was coming?” Martin says with some alarm. 

“Maybe?” says Jon. “Maybe not this specifically, but he must have known someone would try something. If not us, then one of the other Fears.”

“Or someone like Dekker.” 

“Yes. He must have - moved the entire Institute somewhere else.”

“So it didn’t work,” Martin says grimly. 

“No,” says Jon, “It didn’t. I don’t know if Jude and her people will make it out, and if they do, she seems to think this is as likely to be my fault as anything else. I think we can forget the Lightless Flame as a source of help.”

Jon is shaken. He should have expected this from Elias. This close to the Watcher’s Crown, stepping up his attempts to retrieve his Archivist, he would have to have taken precautions. He feels stupid for not having considered the possibility. They sit in silence for a minute or two, while Jon’s mind races with this new development, and Martin frowns and chews anxiously on his lower lip. 

“It’s late,” Martin sighs eventually. “There’s not much we can do tonight. We should get some sleep, figure things out tomorrow.”

“Yes, okay,” says Jon. He doesn’t sleep that night, though, lies staring into the dark, wondering what the hell he’s going to do now. 

He spends the next two days wondering the same thing. Engaging the Lightless Flame had been an act of desperation. If they’ve failed - and he is sure they must have, Elias is far too clever for their mindless destruction - where can he turn now? They should move on, he knows. They’ve spent too long in one location already. But he doesn’t know where to go, paralyzed with indecision. He digs through Gertrude’s notes for any contacts he may have missed, racks his own memories for anything useful. 

One night, despairing, he even locks himself quietly in the bathroom and calls the name of the Spiral over and over, under his breath.

“Please,” he whispers, “I know I was...unfair, the last time we spoke. But I need your help, _please_. Helen, if you can hear me…”

There is no response, and no new doors open. 

On the third day, Martin sits him down, looking nervous and determined.

“I have an idea,” he says. “But you won’t like it.”

“Tell me,” Jon says, because if Martin has something, he’s willing to try it. He’s willing to try anything.

Martin tells him.

“No,” says Jon. His pulse is spiking with adrenaline, his stomach turning over unpleasantly. No, absolutely not. 

“Jon…” Martin begins to say, but before he can, Jon hugs him hard, pulling Martin as close against his body as he possibly can. He wonders if Martin can feel his pulse racing.

“No,” he says into Martin’s ear. “Martin, just - no, we are not even _considering_ that. Even if it was possible, we’re just _not_.”

He can hear the tremor in his own voice as he hangs onto Martin. Martin extricates his arms from where Jon’s pinned them to his sides, and wraps them around Jon in return. Martin’s breathing is a little unsteady. Martin’s arms are warm and heavy around Jon’s body, holding him tightly. Jon shakes his head.

“No,” he says again, hearing his voice tremor. “We’ll think of something else. This isn’t - it might not even work.”

“There isn’t anything else,” Martin says, his voice soft and terribly reasonable. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground for weeks to find a solution. This might not work, but it’s probably the only chance we have, now.”

“Give me the Liar’s Knife,” Jon suggests with the inventiveness of despair. “I’ll surrender myself to Elias. If I can get in a room with him, I can kill him.”

“You can scarcely look at that knife without fainting,” Martin tells him gently. “It doesn’t exactly go well with Beholding. And you said yourself, we don’t know what Elias is capable of. We’ll only get one chance to go after him, and we need him to be vulnerable.”

“So we take another shot at the Institute - find where he’s moved everything, find a way to take it out. We can get more explosives, or - or - ”

“Jon,” Martin says. “You know I’m right.” 

Jon does know he’s right, and that’s why he won’t allow himself to even think about it, a lump rising in his throat and tears stinging his eyes. It feels horribly like grief for something that hasn’t happened yet. Neither of them says anything else for several minutes, as Jon clings to the warmth of Martin’s presence, steady and real, getting himself under control. 

“All right?” Martin says eventually.

“No,” Jon says, and sits back, screwing the heels of his hands into his eyes to swipe away the dampness. Martin gives a little half laugh. He’s red eyed himself, his smile weak and unsure.

“Jon,” he says, his voice quiet but steady. “I - well, I wouldn’t exactly say I _want_ to do this, but I can, so I need to.” 

“I know,” Jon says miserably. He wishes there was some way he could keep denying it, but he can’t, he can’t, because Martin is right. There’s nothing else. Nowhere else to turn.

“When do you want to - ” he asks, and can’t even finish saying the words. 

“There’s no point dragging it out,” Martin says, shrugging. “We can do it tomorrow.”

“Here?”

“Anywhere.”

Jon nods, defeated. Martin takes one of his hands, twines their fingers together and squeezes. Jon’s entire being aches. When Martin leans in to kiss him, he pushes into it hard, kissing Martin like he wants to crawl inside his skin. Martin’s hands are making gentle passes over his shoulder blades and spine, cupping around his neck. Jon digs his own hands into Martin’s hair and drags him closer, gripping fistfuls of curls and listening to the soft noises Martin makes against his mouth, urging him on.

They kiss long and deep and slow, and Jon lets his hands move everywhere, pushes himself further into Martin’s embrace, as if he could hold onto Martin like this, prevent tomorrow from ever coming. Somewhere along the line their clothes come off, and Jon presses Martin down onto his back on the bed, straddling his thighs and running his hands over Martin’s shoulders and chest and belly. Martin is flushed and aroused, lips parted and eyes hazy, his dick curving up hot and hard against Jon’s inner thigh. Martin’s hands are kneading his thighs and gently fondling his dick, which is responding to the attention with enthusiasm. Jon groans low in his throat and rolls his hips forward, pushing his erection into Martin’s grasp. 

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” Martin gasps, wondering. “I just want you all the time.”

Jon feels heat rising in his face at that, arousal coiling through him at the hungry sincerity of Martin’s words. 

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he replies, and it’s only the truth, but Martin makes a quiet _oh_ sound like Jon’s said something remarkable. 

Martin tugs Jon down towards him, and Jon stretches out against him, shifting so their legs wind together. Martin kisses Jon’s neck, his throat, all the way from his collarbone up to his jaw and back down again, so light it is halfway between ticklish and exciting. Jon can’t help squirming a little, and Martin gives a chuckle, because he knows how sensitive that skin is, likes teasing Jon with it. Nobody has ever known Jon like this before. Not just how to excite his physical responses, but _known_ him, right down to the bone, and still wanted him. Still loved him. Jon had never imagined having something like this, had never even known it truly existed to be had, but now he does, and whatever happens, he wouldn’t give up that knowing. 

He pulls Martin up to kiss him again, one hand in his hair and one cupped to his cheek, and he feels Martin’s arms go around his back again, firm and warm. Just being here, skin to skin, is intensely exciting, and Jon feels pleasure drunk as he begins to move, sliding his aching dick against Martin’s body as Martin’s hips thrust up in response. Martin pulls him closer, holds him tighter, moans and pants against his mouth as their bodies move together, friction and pleasure and desperation. Jon is close, and he feels like his heart is breaking, and if he doesn’t do this now he never will. He wrenches his mouth away from Martin’s, pulls back to meet his gaze. 

“I love you,” he says, his voice trembling and his mouth dry. Martin has to know he means it. “I love you.” 

Martin’s eyes widen, and then go unbearably soft.

“I love you so much,” Martin tells him. Jon feels his eyes stinging again, and he thinks he might actually be crying this time. He hides his face against Martin’s shoulder as they rock feverishly together, heat and arousal building to a crescendo, and he clings to Martin as orgasm sweeps through him, moaning. He hears Martin gasping his name, arms tightening even more around him as Martin comes, holding Jon like he never wants to let go. 

“I love you,” Martin murmurs in his ear again, his breathing still ragged. He sounds stunned. 

“I love you, Martin,” Jon tells him, and god, he wishes he hadn’t waited so long to say that. He wishes he hadn’t waited so long for a lot of things.  

The next day they walk out into the city. Innsbruck is picturesque in the midsummer sun, but Jon is scarcely aware of the city around them. Apprehension sits like lead in his stomach, his feet wanting to drag, to slow this down, stop it entirely. Martin’s hand is entwined tightly with his, and Jon feels almost like a child, clinging to something he’s afraid to lose. Martin is looking around as they walk, admiring the elegant buildings and windings streets of the Old Town.

“It would be nice to visit here properly, some time,” he says. “Maybe in the winter - I’ve never been skiing.”

Jon can’t say anything for a moment around the lump in his throat, so he just squeezes Martin’s hand. They walk for a while longer, apparently at random, Martin leading them down branching side streets. 

“Where, uh, where are we going?” Jon manages eventually, his voice sounding strained even to him. 

“I’m not sure yet,” says Martin, his voice vague and distant. “I’ll know when we’re near. I always know.”

Jon swallows hard and nods. He thinks of Alexandria, how surely he had found his way to the old archive below the streets. He thinks of being eight years old, following his bully through the back streets and alleyways, until they finally reached their awful destination. Fear twists through him, and he forces it down. There’s no time for that.

Finally, Martin walks them down a side street and stops, facing a building. The building is unremarkable, painted a faded yellow and with bay windows extending its upper floors over the street. Its door is set back into an archway, shadowed and scarcely visible. Jon thinks the door might be painted red, or it might be dark-stained wood. Looking at it fills him with dread. He turns to Martin, who is watching the door with an intent expression.

“There it is,” he says, soft but certain. Jon wants to ask if he’s sure this is the place, but of course he is. That’s how this works. That is, apparently, how it’s worked since Martin was eight years old, and Jon is astounded at his resolve, to ignore the lure all these years. And now he is walking into it deliberately. Jon feels nauseous at the thought. He grabs Martin’s other hand in his, tugs Martin around to look at him, instead of at the door.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, urgently. “We can walk away, right now. Keep researching, find another way to stop Elias.” 

He grips Martin’s hands tightly, trying to convey how much he means those words. Martin smiles at him. He looks afraid, and determined. 

“I know, Jon,” he says. “I don’t have to. I’m choosing to.” 

Jon can’t say anything to that. He just pulls Martin close against him, Martin’s arms solid around him, hands on his back. Feeling Martin’s chest rise and fall against his, strong and steady and alive. Breathing in Martin’s warm, indefinable scent, nose pressed into his neck. They stand there for some time, and Jon doesn’t want to let Martin go, doesn’t want this moment to end. But eventually, Martin shifts slightly against him, pulls him a little tighter, then disengages very gently. Jon lets him. 

“Promise me,” he says, fiercely, holding Martin’s gaze. Martin made him promise once, he thinks it’s only fair. And Jon kept his word. Martin nods carefully, his expression serious. 

“I promise,” he says. He ducks his head to kiss Jon, quick and firm. A goodbye sort of kiss. Then he turns and walks towards the door, into the shadow of the yellow house. Jon roots himself to the spot, even as everything in him wants to follow, drag Martin back to him. He shoves his hands into his pockets so they can’t betray him. He watches Martin walk into the shadows under the archway, watches him raise a fist to the door. Hears the sound that somehow echoes terribly through the entire street. 

_Knock._

_Knock._

Jon holds his breath, fear coursing through him for a long, long moment. Then the door swings open with a low creaking sound. Jon can’t see what’s inside, can just see Martin standing there, shoulders squared, facing whatever is behind the door. Jon loves him so desperately in that moment, his entire being aching with it. Then he sees the legs swing out from the darkness, chitinous and shiny and many-jointed, arching over Martin as he stands facing them, and he can’t do this. He opens his mouth to call out, but before he can make a sound, the legs snap back through the doorway, and Martin is gone. 

The door swings shut behind him. 

Every instinct of Jon’s is telling him to run over there, pull the door open, go in and drag Martin back. But he doesn’t. Instead he turns, and walks back to the hotel, and waits. He waits all day, anxiety roiling in his stomach as afternoon slides into evening. 

He waits through the night, in the bed he and Martin so recently shared, that still smells like Martin, lying awake until exhaustion finally pulls him down into restless sleep. 

He dreams, that night, about a small boy with curly hair, walking up to a house and knocking on the door. Walking into the welcoming, horrifying arms of what’s inside. 

He wakes, and feels sick. He never thought he would have to see Martin in his dreams. 

He keeps waiting. He can’t do anything else. 

He is still waiting four days later when the hunters finally come for him.


	9. The Reading Room of the British Museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this took a while, it was difficult to put myself in the correct mindset for it. Content warnings for psychological abuse and torture, psychic violence, physical violence and blood, and talk of suicide.

They transport him gagged and blindfolded for the most part. They don’t want him talking to any of them, don’t want him _seeing_. His captors are ungentle, though never rough enough to actually injure him. Like hunting dogs trying to be retrievers, all their instincts screaming to deliver the final bite, but forced to mouth their prey instead. Jon can't find it in him to appreciate their restraint. It really doesn’t matter at this point. 

He feels like a hawk, hooded and returned to the falconer’s hand. He won’t be given a chance to fly again. 

At the end of the journey, they take him to a room and remove his restrictions. Elias is sitting behind a desk - the same desk, Jon thinks, that he had at the Institute. He looks utterly calm, his hands spread out on the dark walnut surface, a complacent smile playing across his lips.

“Welcome back, Jon,” he says. “The Institute has missed you.”

“I hear you moved,” Jon says. The smile broadens, and Jon feels the first brush of Elias’ attention across his awareness, feather light and curious. A shudder runs down his spine. 

“Yes, fortunately,” Elias tells him. “Not long afterwards we had some troubles with the old building. Nothing you’d know about, I’m sure.”

The feeling grows more insistent, Elias’ consciousness pressing harder against his, probing. Jon’s jaw clenches uncomfortably; it was never this strong before he left. Elias is watching him with the expression of a hungry cat, his smile inscrutable as he tries to push his way inside Jon’s head. Jon focuses on keeping his thoughts neutral and bland, away from anything significant. 

“Old buildings can be troublesome,” he says with a shrug. “You moved the whole staff, then?”

“If you’re asking about your assistants,” says Elias, “You needn’t worry. Basira and Melanie are no longer with the Institute.”

Jon feels a stab of alarm go through him, shaking his defenses, and instantly feels Elias try to press his advantage. He pulls himself together briskly, locks his thoughts in place. 

“Not like that,” Elias laughs softly, as though he hadn’t even considered the possibility of a misunderstanding. “However without an Archivist, we didn’t have much need for archival assistants, so I let them go. Generous redundancy package, of course, and I’ll provide a glowing reference, should either of them ask for one.”

“You let them go,” Jon replies, flatly. 

“Scot-free,” says Elias. Then he glances around theatrically, over Jon’s shoulder. “Speaking of assistants, whatever happened to Martin? He _was_ with you, wasn’t he?” 

The probing presence grows sharp and intent, and at the mention of Martin’s name, Jon’s exhausted defenses splinter, ruined and fragmented by long days of heartache. Elias’ intrusion finds its target, and suddenly Jon is watching it again, clear as if he were standing there, watching Martin approach that door, watching those long, spindly legs engulf him, watching him disappear. Feels Elias watching as well, a voyeur to his pain, and loathes him more than ever. Elias nods, seemingly satisfied.

“How unfortunate,” he says, his face arranged into an expression of sympathy. “Trying to make a deal with the Web is always a risk. Hard to negotiate with a spider that sees everything as a fly. At least he probably won’t have suffered much, imagine if it had been the Hive that - ”

Jon’s vision blurs and blood roars in his ears. He isn’t even aware of moving until he’s sprawled across that walnut desk, one hand in Elias’ collar and the other around his expensive tie, _yanking_ it as hard as he can against Elias’ windpipe, thinking of nothing but shutting him up, once and for all. He can hear himself snarling, a wounded animal sound, and for an instant he sees real fear in Elias’ eyes as his face starts to redden, his hands scrabbling ineffectually at Jon’s grip. 

The hunters grab him from behind and start prying him away. One of them thumps him in the head twice, hard and dazing, and he struggles weakly as they drag him back across the room. Elias readjusts his tie, his face settling back into its usual smug assurance. There is a livid red mark across his throat. 

“I can see you’re a little upset, Jon,” he says finally. “Maybe we should speak again when you’ve had some time to compose yourself.”

Jon doesn’t reply, won’t give him the satisfaction. He lets the hunters pull the blindfold back over his eyes, and doesn’t resist as they escort him out of the room, down a set of stairs, along several corridors. One of them gives him a swift jab to the kidneys as they push him into another room, onto the floor. The door shuts and bolts behind him.  

Jon pulls the blindfold off, and drags himself up against the wall, breathing shallowly through the pain. The room is plain and sparsely furnished: a bed, a toilet, a sink. No windows. He sits there for a long time, just breathing, and trying not to think about anything. 

He doesn’t see another person for the next week. 

At least, he thinks it’s a week. He can’t judge the time with any accuracy, can only estimate by the trays of food pushed through a slot in the door. Three times daily, he thinks. For the first couple of days he attempts to eat, but the smell makes him nauseous and after a while he can’t stomach anything but water from the tap. 

There are no statements. 

He holds himself together as best he can, tries to push away the sensation of being observed down to the bone, the oppression, the fear that crawls up his spine and won’t let him sleep. He does what he can to distract himself, to occupy his mind: works through everything he can recall of Gertrude’s notes in his head, recites snippets of Shakespeare from A-Level English, paragraphs from Fischer’s treatise on Fear, lines of poetry that Martin recited to him first. 

He’d been surprised, by the breadth of Martin’s tastes - Jon had always taken him for a die-hard Romantic, but his loves had run from Renaissance sonnets to postmodern realism. Always a surprise, his Martin.

_(“I know agape means both dumbly open and love,” Martin murmurs to him in the dark, his voice a gentle singsong. Jon’s nightmares were bad enough to wake them both, and Martin won’t go back to sleep until he does. “Not the kind of love that climbed the stairs to you.”)_

Nothing helps. The Beholding presses in on him, relentless and horrifying, eating away at his thoughts and his senses, a parasite he no longer has any other way to feed. By what he thinks is the fifth day, he is scarcely able to leave the bed and stumble to the sink for a few mouthfuls of tepid water. His head is splitting, his body weak and hot and shivering, like the worst flu he’s ever had, and he feels his mind coming apart at the seams. He can’t focus on anything, his thoughts scarcely coherent, not at all cohesive. 

Every so often he dissolves into hopeless sobbing for minutes or hours or days, he doesn’t know. Every so often he sleeps, restlessly, and dreams his way through the familiar horrors. Martin is always among them, the sight of him as a child breaking Jon’s heart all over again. He’s not sure if sleeping or waking is worse. 

He is curled up on the bed when the door opens. Elias is standing there. He looks purposeful and mildly repulsed, his nose wrinkling at the undoubtedly foul smell in the tiny room. Three figures stand behind him; he still won’t face Jon alone.

“What do you want?” Jon rasps. His voice sounds awful even to him. 

“I’m not doing this to be cruel, Jon,” Elias tells him. “But you are beholden to a greater thing than yourself, and you need to accept that.”

“Fuck off, Elias,” Jon tells him. Elias makes a small _hmm_ sound of discontent. 

“Not yet, then,” he says. “I’ll come back.”

He steps away, and two of the figures behind him push the third roughly forward, into his cell. The woman stumbles and almost falls, and the door shuts, locking her in with him. Awareness pierces through Jon like a knife and he realizes: this woman has a statement. His thoughts focus grotesquely on her as she looks at him, her back pressed fearfully against the door. He must look as bad as he feels, scarred and unwashed and ill; he can’t blame her for being frightened, but god he wishes she wasn’t. He can practically taste the fear coming off her in waves, and along with the knowledge of what she holds in her head, it is almost overwhelming. 

He doesn’t want to take her statement. He doesn’t, because she is afraid, and he knows it’s just what Elias wants, for him to keep giving pieces of himself up to the Beholding, to relinquish more and more of his humanity to the Archivist. 

If they had just left Jon here, he’d have been dead soon. The Eye would have eaten him from the inside out and that would have been an end to it, at least, an end to his part in this horror. But of course that wasn’t Elias’ plan, and the Archivist is pressing cold and irresistible behind his eyeballs, and Jon clenches his teeth and grinds his jaws together to keep his mouth shut, and it seeps out anyway, like poison between his teeth:

_“Tell me,”_ the Archivist says through his mouth, and it is not a question.

The woman gasps, her eyes going wide and unfocused, and she starts to talk. 

By the end of it, she is crouched in a corner, sobbing and hugging herself, and Jon feels like he’s going to be sick. A gruesome vitality is flowing through him, tingling through his limbs and sharpening his senses. He feels intensely alive, sated and warm, and is horrified by it. He crouches on the floor beside the woman, reaching a hand out to her but not quite touching.

“Hey,” he says, as gently as he can, “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Except he knows that for a lie even as he says it. He knows he’s wounded her, somehow, deeply and terribly, and he backs away as she pleads with him not to come near. It’s never been like this before. He’s never taken this much from someone. That’s why Elias did this, left him locked alone in here for so long, to force this on him. To make him into even more of a monster, and Jon let it happen, couldn’t even hold out long enough to die. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the woman in the corner. A while later, the two hunters return and remove the woman from the room, leaving him alone again. 

This time, he thinks it’s for twelve days, although the food has stopped coming so it’s more difficult to tell.

He tries, he tries so hard when they push the next one into his cell. This man bangs on the door with his fist, demands to know what’s going on, rages to cover his fear but it doesn’t discourage the Archivist, sitting behind Jon’s eyes and thrusting cold, impersonal _curiosity_ in his direction. Jon tries not to look at him, shuts his eyes and stuffs a fist in his mouth to try and keep it at bay, but it does no good.

The man is weeping quietly when they take him away, and the Archivist is buzzing with energy, but somehow still hungering. Jon sits shaking on the bed. Elias has come and gone again, and judged him still not ready, his tone resigned and sympathetic, as if this were all for Jon’s own good. 

Those people, god, those poor people. That terrible, deep agony in their eyes, as if a piece of them had been ripped out and consumed. He can’t keep doing this. Letting the Archivist use him to do this. But what can he do? He hasn’t eaten in over a fortnight, stopped drinking water almost a week ago, but he still keeps living. There’s nothing in this room he could use to try and kill himself, and he’s not sure he _can_ be killed by normal means anymore, not since the Unknowing. He’s trapped, helpless, only his nightmares for company. He whispers scraps of poetry to himself, tries to imagine it in Martin’s voice but all he can hear is Martin telling him _I promise_ , and feels his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Martin promised, he _promised_. Jon has never felt more alone. 

They wait two weeks the next time, and the woman they push in is swearing and threatening. Jon can feel the heat rolling off her skin, the Lightless Flame blazing beneath, and she turns on him with a ferocity born of fear. 

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, and before he can answer, shouts at the door: “Hey! Let me out of here or I’m going to melt this guy’s face off!” 

Jon’s mouth is clamped shut against the hungry demands of the Archivist, desperately trying to avoid saying anything, so he can only shake his head: _They don’t care what you do to me as long as I don’t die, and I don’t think I can._

“Fine!” she shouts after a minute or two. “I’m going to start cooking, and you can let me out whenever you want!”

Jon backs up against the wall as she walks towards him with her hand outstretched, heat haze surrounding it. He shakes his head again desperately: _Please, I’m not sure I can stop it_ , and turns his face away as she approaches, his heart hammering with fear, though he’s not sure if it’s for him or for her. The Archivist slips in under his panic, hijacks his tongue and snaps his head around and he hears the voice that is his but not his:

_“Tell me.”_

The woman’s head snaps back as if she’s been punched and she gasps. Then her teeth grind together so hard it's audible, her jaw clenching shut viciously. She shakes her head like a wet dog, and starts towards him again, a snarl gritting out between her lips.

_“Tell me,”_ the Archivist intones again, and this time the woman’s legs go out from under her like a puppet with its strings cut. 

She stares at him, teeth bared, eyes bulging, tendons standing out corded in her throat. Every inch of her body quivering with the desire to _move_ , to _burn him_ , but she cannot, she cannot escape the Archivist’s compulsion, and he sees blood trickling out of the side of her mouth where she’s bitten her tongue or broken teeth with her efforts to remain silent.  

_“Tell me,”_ the Archivist says once more, and she does.

Afterwards, the door opens, and the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing is standing there, smiling slightly, pleased. Jon shakes his head fiercely - _Elias, his name is Elias_ \- but the recognition is there now, the Archivist yearning towards its counterpart, eager to share all it’s learned, all it’s taken from these creatures. Jon doesn’t move from where he’s huddled on the floor, shivering and panting, feeling like he’s probably going to be sick and then faint. He doesn’t move as solicitous hands touch his shoulders, his face, checking for injury.

“See what you’ve done?” Elias _(Elias, that’s his name)_ tells him, his voice gentle and wondering. “Your words, your knowing, can change the world. This world is _ready_ to change for you.”  

Jon doesn’t answer him, doesn’t look at him, and after a few moments Elias sighs, stands up and moves back to the door. 

“It won’t be much longer, I promise. You’ll feel much better once you just accept the gift you’ve been given.”

The statements come faster after that, every few days, and the Archivist’s hunger knows no bounds. It forces its way through Jon’s throat, demanding and devouring, tearing pieces wholesale from the psyches of its victims, and Jon is helpless to stop it. Every time he loses a little more of himself, and it takes a little longer for what’s left of him to come crawling back into focus. 

He is forgetting who he is, has to keep reminding himself of his name, _Jonathan Sims_ , a person who had a family and at least a few friends, who had a job and a flat and even hobbies, once, a person who likes cats and doesn’t like spiders, and who fell in love when he least expected it.

_(Jonathan Sims, your name is Jonathan Sims)_

He clings desperately to that knowledge, like he clings to the scraps of Martin’s poetry he can barely remember now _(human voices wake us, and we drown)_ , but the Archivist is flowing through his veins and twisting his tongue, and it's not enough.

_(Your name is Jonathan Sims)_

It’s not enough, it’s never enough as the nightmares and the waking blend together, all the fear and knowledge tearing through his head, and the Archivist’s cold scrutiny pouring out through his eyes, the Beholding rising over him like a tide, like a flood - 

_(like human voices, and we drown)_

\- and he can’t fight it anymore, he can’t keep his head above the water, he can’t do anything but - 

_(Your name is - is - )_

Drown. 

***

The door opens, and the Archivist gets to his feet. 

“Welcome home,” says the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing, presses a palm to his cheek, and the Archivist leans against it gratefully. At last he is who and where he is supposed to be.

***

“We have all we need,” the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing tells him. “We’re ready to change the world, just a matter of days.”

While he waits, the Archivist walks the Archives, which have been reconstituted here, their entire contents taken and settled in this new location. It doesn’t look quite the same, but it feels the same, the weight of restless knowledge on its shelves, the hungry presence of Beholding sitting above it. It is familiar and strange at once.

At night he revisits his dreams, elegant sketches of fear that he can now watch without passion. There is nothing new in these dreams, he has taken all the knowing he can from them, but still something draws him to watch them, mapping the lines of those human faces: their terror, their anger, their grief. There are some that he lingers on, time and again _(the woman’s pity)_ , that seem more vital than other _(the boy’s enthrallment)_ although he can’t quite remember why. It is puzzling.

Puzzling, but forgotten, when at last the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing comes to him, tells him: “It’s time.”

This world is ready to change.

***

The Watcher’s Crown takes place in the Reading Room at the Great Court of the British Museum. 

The Archivist can feel the power in the place as soon as he enters, its structures perfectly composed to channel and amplify the influence of the Eye. The place may as well have been built for this very purpose. The round skylight at the apex of the domed ceiling overlooks the round room with its pattern of concentric, curving shelves, an eye above staring lidless down at the eye below. 

The Beholding is so close here, its presence tangible and relentless. The Archivist is trembling with the force of its hunger coursing through him, the air itself heavy and electric. The avatars of the Powers are arrayed around the room, cowed and shivering, their own patronage impotent in this place of Seeing. They are unbound, helpless, their fragile minds - so human despite themselves - crushed beneath the weight of being Seen and Known. 

At the center, the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing waits for his Archivist. He smiles, in a way that says the world will be right so very soon. Their world. 

The Archivist approaches the avatars. All too human, these ones, carefully chosen for equilibrium between animal brain and alien Power. Not the most powerful avatars, but the most fit for compulsion, for consumption, for allowing the Eye to See and Consume the fears they represent, to subsume all fears into its eternal, terrible gaze. The Archivist shivers as the Beholding coils through his skull, ravenous and urgent. 

The air is humming with expectation. The Vessel-Of-All-Knowing meets his eyes, his thoughts touching the Archivist’s with no resistance now, a joyous and exultant presence. _It is time_ , the Archivist understands.

Desolation is first. Her muscled form quivers with rage, unable to move against the Beholding’s power, her eyes burning with hatred as she looks at him, and the Archivist is reminded of another of her kind, just a short time ago. He remembers he had felt remorse then, and fear, though he cannot remember why. He knows this face as well, it is in his dreams, one of the first, he thinks. His right hand closes into a fist and opens again, a memory of pain. 

The Archivist opens his mouth to deliver the final compulsion, to draw all that Desolation is out through this avatar’s being, to strip its terrors bare and bloodless and channel its essence to the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing, who will Know Desolation and render it subject to the Beholding’s dominion and - 

_Here_

Except - 

_Here_

His attention shifts. Something is trying to attract his notice, among these defeated avatars, something defiant. Something of interest. One last thing to Know, before All Knowing is complete - 

The Archivist turns away from Desolation.

He walks slowly along the row of subjugated avatars. They are all trembling, all raging and fearful _(he can feel them)_ , all struggling against the weight of the Eye, to flee, to fight, to do anything but nothing. He ignores them. He feels the Vessel-Of-All-Knowing, mind brushing his with concern _, what is this?_ He ignores it. 

He stops. The avatar kneels before him, head bowed. The Web, of course. One last gasp attempt at manipulation, one last feeble tug on the threads before the end. Interesting, but futile. The Archivist smiles, satisfied at this knowing. He will begin here, instead, consume the Spider first through this rebellious vessel.

_“Tell me,”_ the Archivist says, and the entire inevitable force of the Beholding is behind those words, pouring out through his throat and into the avatar before him, merciless and inescapable. 

The avatar’s face turns up to him, slowly, tortuously. The Archivist feels a strange hollowness behind his ribs. He doesn’t know why. 

This face - he knows this face. The face _(the face he knows, he knows)_ is smiling, although tears are trailing down its cheeks. The face is - 

“Hi, Jon,” the man says, his voice tight and strained, and the Archivist’s chest tightens. He knows, he knows - 

There is something in the man’s hand. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago - or was it? Something that twists like a snake, like a lie, sharp and venomous, and he _remembers_ \- 

_Martin -_

The blade plunges into his side and he stumbles back, too shocked to feel pain, and all around him and above him and within him he feels the vast presence of the Beholding _shudder_ , recoiling from this blow to its very essence, distorting and imploding as its Archivist begins to _bleed_. He presses a hand to his side and feels the wet heat washing over his skin, and suddenly his legs can’t hold him anymore and he falls but he doesn’t, because Martin is there, Martin catches him and lowers him gently to the ground, crouching over him. 

_(He can feel the very foundations of this place juddering as the power gathered here shivers itself apart, can feel Elias’ shock and alarm rising to fear as the other avatars find themselves free of the Beholding’s compulsion, voices ringing out, shouting chaos, sounds of destruction and panic. It all seems terribly far away.)_

“Martin - “ he says.

“I’m here,” Martin tells him, his voice trembling. Martin is here, Martin is touching Jon’s hand, his face, tugging off his jacket and wadding it up to press against Jon’s side, trying to stem the flow, but it is a lot of blood, Jon can see it pooling thick and bright red on the ground, spreading around them both. 

It really is a very sharp knife. 

“You're here,” he repeats, wondering, reaching a hand up to grasp at Martin’s arm, his shoulder, scarcely believing he’s real. Martin gives a laugh that’s half a sob, still pressing the makeshift bandage hard against his side. 

“I promised,” he says, “I promised.”

Jon smiles. Martin looks just the same, warm and worried, no sign he was ever pulled through a door by the Web, no sign he’s anything but Martin. Except - if Jon focuses just over his shoulder, he sees something glinting in the air, shimmering lines faint as silk threads. He thinks he does, at least, but his eyes are watering and it’s difficult to focus. Difficult to breathe, through the pain. He does, though, because he needs to talk to Martin. 

“Did you stop it?” he manages to say. Martin nods frantically, his expression distraught. He’s crying, Jon can see, and the fine threads around him are vibrating with distress. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Martin says, “I just need to - to find a phone, call an ambulance. I’ll be right back. Hold this here, press as hard as you can.”

He takes Jon’s hand and places it against the wadded up jacket, which is already soaked through. Jon can scarcely hold his hand in position, weak and trembling, and Martin hovers over him for a moment, indecisive.

“Jon,” he says, and his voice is pleading, terrified. “Please - please just stay awake. Please - ”

“Martin,” Jon tells him. It’s very important that he tells him. “Martin, it’s okay. You saved the world. It’s okay.”

“I’ll be back, I promise,” Martin tells him, and darts away. 

Jon lies there, breathing shallowly. It hurts less that way. He can still hear noise around him, sounds of heavy objects smashing, screams, a roar that sounds like something going up in flames. He thinks he should probably be afraid, or at least concerned, should probably try to get himself somewhere safe. He’s so tired, though. After everything, he’s too exhausted to care. 

All he feels is relieved, and happy, because the world hasn’t ended, and Martin’s here, and nothing else could possibly matter.

He really is terribly tired.

Martin told him to stay awake, and he’s done his best, but he doesn’t think he can. It’ll be okay. He got to see Martin’s face again, hear his voice. 

Martin’s okay, it’s all okay. 

Jon closes his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The last chapter will be up in the next couple of days - it is already mostly written.
> 
> 2\. You should definitely look up the Reading Room in the Great Court of the British Museum. For 140 years it was the official reading room of the British Library, was then used as an exhibition space, and is now closed to the public. The floor layout and the skylight overhead are both VERY reminiscent of eyes, and the room was designed by Sydney Smirke, brother of Robert Smirke. It's a beautiful structure, and it would not surprise me at ALL to see it come up in canon in relation to the Beholding.
> 
> 3\. The poem quoted by Martin in this chapter is "Sweet Double, Talk-Talk [iv.]" by Catherine Barnett, who also inspired the title of this story. Jon also thinks of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.
> 
> 4\. Thank you all for sticking with me this far, I truly appreciate everyone who's read and commented. We're almost there!


	10. Somewhere; London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're done! I hope you enjoy this last chapter - I know I enjoyed writing it.

Jon is not aware of opening his eyes, but somehow he can see. 

He is in a room he doesn’t recognize. It has ugly green wallpaper and a yellow carpet, and there are chairs lining the walls, including the one he’s sitting on. There are two doors, both of them shut, and a clock on the wall whose hands are not moving. 

Jon doesn’t remember how he got here. He feels like maybe he should be panicking, like something terrible has happened or is happening, somewhere, but he can’t seem rouse any emotions beyond mild concern. 

He spends a while looking at the doors, which are the most interesting thing in the room. They both appear to be wooden. One of them is a light brown, the color of milky tea, softly grained with gold. The other is a rich, dark taupe with almost purplish whorls running through it. If he concentrates, he can hear faint sound coming from behind the light brown door, a low susurration that might be voices, or the sound of rushing water. The other door is quiet.

He gradually notices a series of fine, shimmering threads stretching out from the gap around the jamb of the lighter door. The strands are so thin they’re difficult to see in the dim light, and he turns his head this way and that to visualize them. They are, he realizes, all stretching across the room towards him. He looks down at himself, and can see the threads connecting to his arm, his leg, all down the right side of his torso. He can’t actually feel them, although they are adhering to his skin too, where his hand sticks out of his sleeve.

_Adhering to, or extruding from,_ he thinks, and there is that mild concern again. He sweeps his arm in a broad arc, to see how the threads react. They stretch along with his movement, showing no signs of snapping or detaching, a strong, elastic material. 

_Spider silk is, of course_ , something in his head supplies, and he wonders where that came from. He thinks about plucking one of the threads off himself, or trying to at least, but decides against it until he knows more. Perhaps they’re supposed to be there. 

He stands up, and goes to take a look at the dark brown door, the threads elongating with each step. He places a hand on it. It looks like wood, but it is completely smooth to the touch. It isn’t particularly warm, or cold, scarcely feels like anything at all. He leans in close to press his ear against it, listen for any sound coming from the other side.

There is a long, low creak, and he jumps, but it didn’t come from this door. It came from the new door that’s just appeared in the wall to his left. This door is pale yellow, and humid heat is washing into the room from where it’s swung open. 

“Oh, Archivist,” says the figure standing in the doorway. “What have you done this time?”

“Helen,” Jon says as she walks into the room, the door closing behind her. “Did you bring me here?”

“Certainly not,” she says, sounding indignant. “This is nothing to do with me, Archivist. If anything, _you_ brought _me_ here.”

“I - what do you mean?”

Helen’s face splits into a smile, or at least all of her teeth are suddenly visible, all at once. 

“You were killed with my knife, weren’t you? And now you’re here, and so am I. We’re here.”

The knife - and of course, he remembers it all now. The Watcher’s Crown, and Martin, and god, he’s _dead?_ The delayed panic is finally starting to set in, his pulse jumping suddenly.  

“I’m dead?” 

“Not entirely, not yet,” Helen says thoughtfully. “Just mostly dead. Being killed with an implement of the Spiral is a tricky proposition for anyone, and most of all for a servant of the Beholding.”

“This can’t really be happening,” Jon mutters, half to himself. He’s starting to feel a little frantic now, and trying hard to keep it under control. To _think_. He needs to stay calm, if he’s going to figure this out.

Helen laughs. Her laugh is nothing like Michael’s, but it grates in all the same ways.

“What’s _really happening_ is always a matter of perspective, Archivist. And I like to keep my perspective flexible. But I can assure you, wherever _here_ is, it is where you are.”

“So, uh, how do I - get out of here?”

“There are doors.”

“Do you know what’s behind them?”

“They’re not my doors, except for that one.” She points with a grotesque hand at the yellow door. “You can go through there if you want, but I don’t think you’d like it. As for the others, well, at least one of them seems reluctant to release you.”

Jon looks down at the shimmering threads stretching out from his body under the light colored door. Spider silk, he is quite certain now, and he knows what it means. Or at least hopes he does. That door leads to Martin. 

His heart quickens in his chest at the thought, and without conscious decision he walks towards the door. He can hear that low susurrus of sound once again as he approaches, and now he is sure it is voices, though he can’t tell if they are whispering or shouting or babbling. They don’t sound threatening, as such, just...hectic. As if there is a lot going on behind this door. 

He puts a hand on the door, which is rough beneath his palm and faintly warm to the touch, like something alive. And as he does, he feels what else is behind the door, its endless hunger reaching out for him through the warm wood.

The Beholding. Waiting for him to return. Waiting for him to be the Archivist again, to be _what he is supposed to be_. 

He pulls his hand away like it’s been burned, steps back from the door. He feels faintly nauseous. Of course he can’t escape it. He is himself now, at least as much if he can be, but if he goes back, it all begins again. He goes back to struggling endlessly for his humanity, as the Eye tries to eat away at his soul. 

He wishes he could say that the Archivist was an entity completely removed from himself, an alien presence that had taken over his body, but that isn’t true. He remembers _being_ the Archivist, utterly and fervently, and although now the memory makes him sick with horror, he can remember embracing it. _Reveling_ in it, at the end. He _was_ the Archivist, and he cannot be again. Not ever. 

He is so very tired of fighting. 

“There is another door, Archivist,” says Helen. She is standing in a corner with her unfeasible arms crossed, one elongated finger tapping curiously against her cheek. Jon nods, wordless.

As he walks towards the dark colored door this time, the spider threads stop giving and pull taut, trying to tug him back towards their door. He ignores them. 

He feels nothing from the dark brown door. It is not warm or cold. There is no sound from behind it, no threads pulling at him or fears waiting to assail him. No sense of anything beyond it at all, and it slowly dawns on him that _nothing_ is precisely what is behind this door. Oblivion. Nonexistence. No more fighting against the power that wants to consume him, no more fear or pain or loss, no more anything at all. Just...an end. 

It wouldn’t be difficult...

The threads _pull_ suddenly, insistently, dragging him a step, then two, away from the silent door. Jon plants his feet. He won’t let them control him.  

Helen leans forward, an expression of interest on her face.

“I could cut those for you, if you’d like?” she offers, her jagged hands reaching out towards him, towards the straining threads. 

“No!” Jon snaps. “No. Not - not yet. I need to, to think about this. I need to just...think.” 

He goes and sits down again, and puts his head in his hands. His mind is racing, his breathing ragged and uneven. He understands it now, this choice he has to make. If it even is a real choice, in this place. If this isn’t just a coma dream or a near-death hallucination. But he has no option, does he, other than to treat it like it is? Because if it is - 

Jon’s never really wanted to die. Not even when he was at his most despairing, not when Adelard Dekker laid out the consequences of his continued living. Not even when the Archivist was clawing at the inside of his skull. It’s not that he’s so absolutely attached to his own life. There have been times when he’s considered that maybe he _should_ die, that if there was some heroic sacrifice to be made, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. But he never _wanted_ it. 

Now though…

God, he’s so tired. And there is something inside of him, a part of him that is profoundly wounded, and exhausted, and _used up_ , that yearns towards the idea of not having to deal with it all anymore. That just wants to stop. It’s probably selfish, but doesn’t he deserve a little selfishness after everything? Hasn’t he given enough? 

But...he wants to see Martin again, so desperately that it hurts. He remembers the thought that saved his life, in Dekker’s house, _Martin would be terribly annoyed if I got myself killed._ Thinking of that he laughs, but it comes out closer to a sob. 

“You seem upset,” Helen observes. “You were upset the last time we spoke as well.”

“I - yes, I was,” says Jon. “I’m sorry I got angry, when you just needed someone to talk to. I understand why you haven’t spoken to me since then.” 

He is sorry, genuinely so. Helen might be a monster, but god knows he’s learned that isn’t the only thing that defines someone. And Helen - she had been trying, back then. 

“I...understand,” says Helen. “It can be upsetting, when things change. When you have to choose how things change. I have had to make many choices, since I’ve been Helen, and it has been - difficult. You cannot imagine how it feels, being _me_ and having humanity imposed upon you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again. “I wish I could say it’s any easier, coming at it from the other side.”

“I think I’ll leave now,” Helen tells him. “Maybe I’ll see you again, Archivist.”

“Maybe,” says Jon. 

The yellow door opens. Helen folds herself through it, and it creaks shut and disappears. Jon is alone. 

He sits there for a long time. Then he gets up and opens a door. 

***

Jon opens his eyes.

The ceiling above him is a faded cream color, and there is a harsh fluorescent strip light almost directly overhead that hurts his eyes. A faint, regular beeping noise is issuing from somewhere behind him. The air smells like cleaning products. A hospital, then. 

He turns his head away from the light and tries to sit up. Sharp pain jolts through his left side, and he collapses back with a gasp, lies there for a few long moments as the pain recedes to a dull ache. He shifts himself carefully, slowly, so he can look at his surroundings.

The first thing he sees is Martin, sitting in a chair beside the bed, slumped forward onto the mattress with his head resting on his folded arms. Sound asleep. Jon’s heart leaps at the sight of him. Martin’s here, he’s _okay_. Martin makes a small snuffling noise in his sleep, and warmth settles through Jon’s chest. With some effort, he manages to lift his hand and rest it on Martin’s head, gently stroking the curly mess of his hair. He can’t describe how it feels, to be able to do this again, after - 

He pushes the thought away for now. There is...so much in his head. So much that Jon’s not sure he will ever be truly okay again, but right now he is here, with Martin, and it is...incredible.

A few minutes later, Martin makes a low noise in his throat and his eyes flutter open. They land on Jon, and he startles bolt upright. 

“Jon!” he exclaims. “You’re awake - I can’t - it’s so - ”

Words seem to desert him at that point. Martin is smiling brilliantly, but there are tears in his eyes and his mouth is twisting like he’s about to cry. Jon knows how he feels. Everything is just - just overwhelming. Joy and sorrow and relief are all tangled together through his chest, and something in him can’t quite believe that it’s over, that they’ve survived.

“Martin…” is all Jon manages to say before his voice cracks. It seems to be enough, though, and Martin leans across the bed and wraps his arms around Jon, very gently, holding him like something easily damaged. Which, he supposes, he is right now. Jon slides his arms around Martin’s back, closes his eyes and just breathes, soaking up the familiar warmth of Martin’s body. Martin’s hair tickles his face, and Martin’s face is pressed into his neck.

“I was so worried,” Martin says, his voice muffled. “I thought - they weren’t sure if you were going to make it. They only told me a few hours ago that - that you’d pull through. I’m so sorry, Jon.”

“What on earth for?” says Jon. “Your plan worked, you saved everyone. You saved me. You - ”

He chokes on his words and pulls Martin closer, unwilling to let him go. Martin seems to have much the same idea, and they are still wrapped together several minutes later when a nurse announces her presence with a loudly cleared throat.

“I’m afraid visiting hours are over - have been for a while, actually,” she tells them. “And Mister Sims, even though you’ve just woken up, you need to rest. Your body needs time to recover.”

“It’s all right,” Martin says, smiling at her. “You can let me stay. I’ve been so worried, and I’m clearly so devoted - you’d hate to drag me away from my boyfriend so soon after he’s woken up, wouldn’t you? It won’t do any harm.”

Jon sees a faint shimmering in the air around Martin, those almost invisible threads of control and manipulation. Sees the nurse’s eyes go slightly distant, and she nods, slowly.

“You’re right,” she says. “It won’t do any harm - you can stay for a while.” 

She checks Jon’s drip and the various monitors, checks off a few items on a chart, and then leaves them alone. Martin won’t quite meet his gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Martin says defensively. “I didn’t hurt her or anything. I just didn’t want to get into an argument, and I wasn’t about to leave, was I?”

“It’s - you shouldn’t do that to people,” Jon says, trying to sound stern. The fact that he is still holding Martin’s hand probably takes some of the weight out of it.

“I know, I just - I had to stay with you. It’s just this once.”

Jon knows how easily _just this once_ can snowball out of control, but he lets it drop for now. They’ll have to talk about this later. They’ll have to talk about...a lot of things, starting with what happened after Martin walked through that door in Innsbruck. Now isn’t the time, though. Jon knows he’ll have to talk, too, about what happened to him. About being the Archivist, and he’s not ready for that yet. Right now, it's enough that they're together, and okay. Just for a little while. 

There is one thing he needs to know, however.

“What happened to Elias?” he asks. The last he remembers of Elias is his thoughts roiling in panic as the Watcher’s Crown fell apart around him. The screams and chaos of the suddenly freed avatars, eager for violence against the man that had imprisoned and victimized them. 

“I - it was a bit of a mess,” Martin tells him, his brow furrowed. “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, and it was - there was fire, and I almost got buried under a pile of _flesh_ , and they had to take about a dozen worms out of you after it all - ” 

“Martin…” Jon interrupts gently as his eyes start to go wild. Martin takes a deep breath and nods, focusing.

“Last I saw...I think Peter took him. What was left of him, after the other avatars had got to him. Revenge, I suppose, for Elias betraying the Lukases.”

“Maybe,” says Jon. It would make sense, but Peter Lukas is even more of an enigma than Elias. It’s possible he could have… Well, they’ll just have to deal with that if it comes up.

“I suppose we owe Elias one, really,” Martin says cheerfully. “I mean, if he hadn’t been so predictable, hadn’t insisted on using me for the ritual once he found out I’d gone to the Web... Well, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

“I suppose we do,” says Jon, and wonders how he went so many years in the Archives without seeing the Web in Martin. He’s always had a knack for manipulation, for seeing which buttons to push, how people will react when you do. He understands people a lot better than Jon does, that’s for certain. It’s just lucky Martin is a good person, right down to the bone. Jon squeezes his hand, and Martin’s smile becomes somehow even brighter.

“So, uh, what happens now?” Martin asks. “I mean, obviously you’ll have to spend some more time in the hospital, and I know there are some sectioned officers wanting to have a word when you’re up to it, but, you know, after that?”

Jon considers. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about an “after” in relation to the Watcher’s Crown. It’s still something that’s almost impossible to think about. 

“I’m...not sure, really,” he admits. “I mean, we’ve stopped the Watcher’s Crown, but the Fears are still at work in the world. There’s still Ny-Ålesund to worry about, whatever the Raynors and the Fairchilds are up to. And with the Beholding weakened, the others are bound to take advantage. The Archives are intact, in the new Institute building. We could - we could reform the Institute, with a new mission, to protect the world rather than just watching it.”

Jon grabs Martin’s other hand, fervent. The more he thinks about this, the more it sounds like the right thing to do. And yes, there's a small part of him that questions why _they_ have to be the ones to worry about what's to come, but the simple answer is: because they're the ones that can do something about it.

“Basira and Melanie might be willing to come back, for that. Maybe we could even make peace with Adelard Dekker, now I’m not in danger of ending the world. And you and I, Martin, we have power. It’s - it’s not a _good_ thing, but other people have been able to use it to help. Gertrude, in her way. Gerry Keay. I think we could too. I really do. What do you think?”

Martin is smiling at him, desperately fond, and he leans forward and kisses Jon. Jon returns it with enthusiasm.

“What was that for?” he asks when they break apart.

“I just love you, so much,” Martin tells him. 

“Oh, well, I, uh, I love you too,” Jon says, feeling his face go hot. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to take those words for granted. “So what do you think of my idea?”

“I think it’s...fantastic,” says Martin. “Ridiculous and heroic and just, just amazingly _you_. Just woken up from almost dying and already thinking about saving the world again. I’m in. Of course I am. How could I not be?”

Jon wants to laugh and cry all at once. This man, this incredible man, who has traveled with him across continents, stuck with him through fear and danger and pain. Who was willing to sacrifice everything in a desperate, brilliant gamble to save the world, and who won. This man...this is the man he loves, Martin Blackwood. He doesn’t know what he did in this or any other life to deserve it. 

Maybe the Web is what pulled them together. After all these years, entangling itself with them both, maybe it saw something it could use to prevent the Beholding’s ascendancy. Maybe, that first day in the Archives, the Web brought Martin back to him. Maybe, maybe. But it doesn’t matter, because they’ve chosen each other, time and again, through all that the world’s thrown at them, and they’ll stand side by side together against anything that threatens humanity. The Web included. Let the Powers beware. 

“So…” Martin says, grinning slyly at him. “Who’s going to be the head of the Institute, now? I’ve been there longer than you, so technically I _do_ have seniority…”

Jon laughs out loud at that, and pulls Martin in to kiss him again. 

“We’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading, and for all your thoughtful comments throughout. I truly appreciate it.


End file.
